


The Threat of Falling

by umbrafix



Series: Life Bonds [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Cliche, Denial of Feelings, Episode: s01e02 Fugue, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 01, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life bonds weren't so uncommon, but even so Morse had never thought he would be unfortunate enough to form a second after the first had ended so badly, and certainly not with DI Thursday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't really have any excuses for this one.
> 
> Set in Season 1, before, during and after 1.2: Fugue.

The thing about ‘life bonds’ was that they weren’t anything like their romanticised reputation. They were rare enough to be a novelty, but common enough that everyone knew someone with one - or knew someone who knew someone with one. About 4% of the population, though it varied between countries and according to reportage. Morse had read up on them a lot, in his university days.

 

It had been proven that it was entirely possible to have a bond and never realise it; to just think you were passionately in love with each other and had a particularly fulfilling relationship. Most people knew though – there were certain effects that were characteristic – especially in the first couple of months. It did not, however, give you telepathy, or let you know how the other person was feeling, or mean that your heart stopped if they died, despite the fancies of literature, films and the media.

 

Morse knew exactly how it felt, because he had had one, and lost it.

 

The major misnomer concerning life bonds being, of course, that they were for life. When he had been younger, more naïve and so desperately in love, he had allowed himself to believe it. It had been a false hope though, a mirage of idealised love which had shattered after too short a time. And so Morse knew what a bond was, and what it felt like to have a bond broken.

 

He had never thought he could be so unfortunate as to form another.

 

\-----

 

Working at Cowley police station was a mixed blessing.  It wasn’t Carshall-Newtown, with its grey, washed out walls and constant mockery and abuse, so the atmosphere was a definite improvement. Although, Morse thought, as Jakes aimed a sarcastic insult at him on his way in, not as much of an improvement as it could have been. A DI who might actually listen to him though. And at least one friendly face thus far, in Strange.

 

But it was Oxford. Oxford, which in his memories was a haze of rosy sunsets and rain tapping on windows, of the smell and feel of old books, and lying on green grass or tousled sheets - all of which lanced through with absolute agony and despair. He couldn’t go anywhere,  _anywhere_ , without feeling both extremes of the emotional spectrum at once, and it was exhausting.

 

Perhaps the only place that wasn’t true was inside the police station, which he’d been fortunate enough to never encounter before becoming a police officer. Except for first thing and late at night, it was usually noisy and boisterous, and, currently being on general duties, there was always a pile of work awaiting him that others had felt free to ‘redistribute’ his way. It was blessedly neutral, and he could bury himself in his work and the general din, and not think.

 

“Report of a burglary, from a shop on Market Street.” Jakes tossed a note on his desk. “Go check it out, Morse.”

 

Without conscious thought, Morse calculated the distance between the address and his old college, Lonsdale. He’d have to walk past it, perhaps, and even if he went another way he’d still know it was there, not a quarter of a mile away.

 

Lonsdale, where he’d been with Susan.

 

Indeed, there were times when he thought coming back to Oxford was a terrible mistake.

 

\-------

 

Still, he had been adjusting to it. Like any scab constantly tugged at, the pain had become almost normal. Perhaps even faded a little, as new experiences started to replace the old. St Michael’s Street became the place he arrested someone who caught him a good blow in the stomach and winded him, rather than the place he had sometimes come with Susan for a late breakfast at weekends, long ago. He and Thursday slowly cycled through several of the pubs in town for their occasional lunches or a pint after work on a Friday; each time he sat and did his crossword, or talked through a case, he saw her shadow less and less.

 

Finally he was starting to feel easier in his own skin again, feeling the flex of his mind without the constant echo of ‘what used to be.’ This must have been what the doctor’s referred to when they said that he would ‘get over it’ eventually. He’d thought he had – thought that the emptiness he’d felt in the signal corps and the grey fog of unhappiness he’d felt at Carshall-Newtown had been a vast improvement over that last turn in Oxford, when his heart and mind had felt shattered.

 

Now he could feel other things though. Pride, desire, curiosity, frustration, irritation, sadness; emotions he almost hadn’t noticed were missing until they came flooding back in again full force.

 

He rang his sister, for the first time in months, and felt able to carry out a conversation with her and feel something other than duty and obligation. He heard the warmth in his own voice when he asked how she was, and her happiness at his call gave him pleasure. She said, somewhat hesitantly, that he sounded much better. Perhaps, despite his misgiving, coming back to Oxford had been exactly what he needed; to confront the past and put it behind him rather than letting it fester.

  

And that’s all he’d thought it was. Until one day Thursday brushed his fingers thoughtlessly over Morse’s cheek, wiping off a splatter of mud from a passing car that Morse’s thrown up arms hadn’t been quick enough to protect him from. It should have been nothing, a tiny gesture with no ramifications whatsoever.

 

But Morse felt a swoop in his stomach like standing too near the edge of a high building, and the same moment of disorientation and dizziness as though leaning forward despite the threat of falling.

 

“Look at you, you’re soaked,” said Thursday disapprovingly, turning to stare after the car, his hand dropping back to his side. Morse watched it fall, studying the shape of familiar fingers and now able to associate them with  _touch_  and warmth and slightly rough skin.

 

There had been other occasional touches in the past – supporting him when he fainted, a clap to the shoulder once or twice – but always through two or three layers of fabric. Each one suddenly rang like a clarion call in his memory, and it was as though the tiny sparks engendered by them, previously lying dormant, had flared into life at the contact of skin on skin. For a brief, irrational moment Morse considered reaching out to catch Thursday’s hand, just to feel it again. Then logic reasserted itself, and he firmly quashed the thought.

 

It was just attraction, desire, he immediately rationalised, deeply embarrassing but nothing more. That was all that was responsible for the feeling of warmth that spread from head to toe.

 

Thursday had turned back to him, and surveyed him critically. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare at the station?” Thursday took a step towards him, reached out and idly undid the button on Morse’s jacket, sweeping it open to hmm at the practically wet-through shirt front beneath. Morse felt himself flush bright red. “You need to change, before you catch a cold. You look a bit peaky.”

 

“No, sir, not at the station.” Thursday hadn’t let go of his jacket, and he was standing close enough that Morse could smell tobacco from the pipe he’d smoked earlier in the day. It smelled nice; comforting, deep and rich and… Morse  _hated_  tobacco.

 

A half step back, and a quick check of himself later, he felt he had control enough of his voice to say, “My trousers too, I’m afraid, sir. They’ll dry quickly enough, though.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot. We’ll stop at yours on the way back – it’s not far to the car.”

 

Morse thought about that. At the very suggestion of Thursday being within twenty meters of his flat, a dozen fantastic imaginings wove themselves through his mind; Thursday might come in for a cup of tea to ward off the chill, or just because he was concerned about Morse, or because Morse needed help getting out of his wet clothes…

 

“Why don’t I drop you at the station first, sir?” he forced out of his reluctant mouth. “That way you won’t lose any time.” They were at the car now, and Morse felt reluctance even at the separation of walking around to the other side – several feet apart rather than just beside each other.  _Oh God_.

 

Thursday was frowning at him, as he ducked his head to join him in the car. “Are you sure? It’s not far out of our way, and-“

 

“I’m sure,” Morse interrupted tersely, and saw Thursday look taken aback at his rudeness. “Thank you,” he added, to try and soften it.

 

\----

 

After he dropped Thursday off, he felt it the whole way back to his flat – a constant, irritating burr under his skin. It had to be his imagination. Maybe he was getting sick; there was a virus going around the station at the moment – Strange hadn’t come in today because of it. It was just coincidence that it reminded him of an old, half-remembered sensation.

 

Quickly, he stripped and briskly towelled off his damp skin. Clean, dry socks. Undershirt, underwear, trousers, shirt, tie. With each new item of clothing, a little of the tightness in his muscles eased, and as he scooped up his jacket to take with him – he’d have to let it dry at the station - Morse felt almost normal.

 

It had just been his imagination; he’d been thinking on old wounds too much, that was all. The damp clothes had just been chafing his skin.

 

He hummed to himself on the way back to work, and smiled at Jakes as he walked into the office. Jakes gave him an odd look, and said, “Heard you went swimming. Quack quack,” to which he merely shrugged.

 

“I heard they’re handing out honorary degrees for extraordinary witticism now,” he said dryly as he hung his jacket up over the back of his chair. “Maybe you should apply?”

 

“Then I’d have more of a degree than you,” said Jakes smartly. Morse bit back the retort on his tongue as he saw Thursday open his office door – the DI always had a strict word for them when he caught Morse and Jakes at each other’s throats.

 

“Morse.”

 

Morse nodded at Jakes, and moved past him to walk into Thursday’s office.

 

Inside, he stood in front of Thursday’s desk, hands in pockets, waiting for the DI to walk round to the other side. It was a little startling, therefore, to hear Thursday come up behind him, to feel a hand gently tweak at the back of his collar.

 

“Bit less bedraggled, now.”

 

“Sir,” he said faintly, as he became extraordinarily conscious of the skin at the back of his neck. Thursday didn’t move away, and his hand came to rest across the back of Morse’s neck over his shirt, a warm, solid weight which almost made Morse sway where he stood. For a moment he felt transfixed and couldn’t move, lost in a state of pleasurable torpor. It was, in fact, only the fact that he had felt this way before, long ago, had  _lived_  with it, which saved him from just leaning back and enjoying the touch. Instead came a steady burn of ‘ _this is wrong_ ’ - this was his superior, his very  _happily_   _married_  superior - and so Morse stepped forward rather than back, and lowered himself into the visitor’s chair, carefully not looking at Thursday.

 

Thursday didn’t move from where he was standing for what seemed like a long time, and Morse stared fixedly at the desk. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the inspector was thinking. Finally, Thursday cleared his throat, and Morse felt a little like he’d been released from a trap.

 

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked, in some approximation of a normal tone of voice.

 

“Yes,” said Thursday, and moved to take a seat himself. His face was inscrutable, and he reached for a folder on the desk. “Did you find the files for the Jenkin’s case?”

 

“Yes, sir. I went through them this morning.”

 

Thursday looked sharply at him. “You weren’t suppose to go through them, Morse, just to deliver them to me. Or to Jakes.”

 

“Yes, sir. I’ve put them on Jakes’ desk.”

 

After waiting a moment, Thursday sighed. “Go on then.” And so Morse ran through all of the pertinent information in the files, highlighting a couple of suspect pieces of information and suggesting that the sister’s husband might be a person of interest in the bond-theft case.

 

As he finished, Thursday shook his head. ‘If Bright catches you stepping outside of general duties, I’ll be in for another lecture, and don’t think I won’t pass it down,” he warned.

 

“But why can’t I-“

 

“Don’t start,” said Thursday wearily, and Morse subsided with a small nod.

 

“I just happened to see that page when I was checking it was the right file, sir,” Morse said after a moment, as innocently as he could manage.

 

Thursday pointed at the door. “Out,” he said, but there was a slight smile on his face.

 

And, half an hour later, Morse had convinced himself he’d been imagining the rest of it.

 

\----

 

He dreamt that night, of course he did, but it wasn’t of Susan or Rosalind Calloway, nor of a nightmarish scene or falling. No, these dreams were of nothing and everything all at once - of looking across a room and seeing Fred Thursday. Thursday stood there, back to Morse, and everything about him was perfectly clear where the rest of the room was blurry. The tailoring of his suit, the way he stood, the angle of his hat, everything exact and incredibly real. Then Thursday turned, and caught Morse’s eyes with his own.

 

That was the entire dream, the same multiple times throughout the night. Nothing more than Thursday turning to meet his eyes, but each time Morse felt an incredible powerful emotional and erotic charge in the moment, and woke up aching and aroused.

 

It wasn’t unusual to dream about someone one found attractive, he reasoned to himself.

 

It did make him blush like a schoolboy as he was ushered inside the door by Mrs Thursday the next morning, and saw Thursday coming down the stairs. “Morning, Morse,” the inspector said, still in his shirtsleeves. “I head Jakes was called out. Give me a minute.”

 

“Have you had breakfast?” asked Mrs Thursday, and it took Morse a moment to realise she was talking to him.

 

“Oh. Thank you, I’m fine.” He waved off the kind offer, and then pressed himself against the side of the hallway as Thursday’s son went rushing past. Morse was always amazed by the amount of energy young people seemed to have. He didn’t seem to remember running everywhere, himself, but then he’d always been more the nose-in-a-book sort.

 

“You’d better hurry and finish getting ready, Sam, or you’ll be late!” Mrs Thursday called up after Sam. “Joan? Joan!”

 

Morse moved back to hover by the front door, feeling like he was intruding on the family. “You alright, Morse?” asked Thursday as he pulled his jacket on. Mrs Thursday held his coat open for him to put it on over the top, and Morse watched every movement with keen eyes. He always felt a distant yearning when he saw such affection and domesticity.  _Nice_ , his mind would say,  _but never for me_.

 

Belatedly, he became aware that he’d been asked a question. “Yes, fine.” He smiled tightly, and wished the expression felt less foreign on his face.

 

“I think he’s sickening for something,” Thursday confided to his wife, who immediately turned to look at Morse with concerned eyes. “He got soaked to the bone, yesterday.”

 

“Now you take care of yourself,” she said to Morse, and this time the smile felt easier. It was his first time meeting Mrs Thursday, since Jakes had largely taken over picking Thursday up in the morning, but she seemed to be warm and caring.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“She means well,” Thursday said as they got into the Jaguar.

 

“She seems very kind,” offered Morse after a moment, as he settled into his seat, unsure of the etiquette of complimenting another man’s wife.

 

“That’s my Win.”

 

A moment’s careless fumble while fitting the key, and Morse desperately tried to catch it as the keychain fell by his feet. No such luck. He sighed, and reached a searching hand down to try and retrieve it, but he was too close to the steering wheel and couldn’t bend far enough. Pulling back, he started to open the car door to get out, but Thursday said “Here.” He leaned over and _slid his hand down Morse’s leg_ , his shoulder practically in Morse’s lap for all that his face was turned away, and two seconds later there was a triumphant jingle and Thursday’s noise of satisfaction as he pulled back and held out the keys.

 

Morse had gone still, absolutely still, at the first touch of Thursday’s hand on his leg. This was not normal behaviour from the DI; he had never been particularly hands on beyond the odd touch on the shoulder. He hadn’t ever invaded Morse’s personal space in the way that so many people did without thinking, and Morse usually found his company the more soothing for it. Soothing was not the word he would have used to describe this situation. Coupled with the odd behaviour from yesterday, Morse almost couldn’t help but think…

 

“Morse?” Morse jerked his eyes round to find Thursday staring at him, keys still dangling from his hand. A slow awareness of the awkwardness of the situation, and exactly what he’d just done, started to spread across Thursday’s face, and Morse couldn’t bear it.

 

“Thank you.” He snatched the keys from Thursday’s fingers, careful not to touch him. His own hands were shaking slightly as the key slid into the ignition, and the steady rumble of the car’s engine breaking the silence was a blessing.

 

Thursday cleared his throat beside him. “Morse…” But he either didn’t know what to say or how to say it, and so they drove on without speaking.

 

\----

 

For three days Morse carefully ignored a steady urge to stand closer to Thursday, to reach out to him. He made no comment when Thursday touched the back of his hand to get his attention, put a hand on the small of his back to usher him past and casually brushed against him tens of times. It was his imagination. Thursday was just starting to feel more comfortable with him now that they’d worked together for a couple of months. And Morse was definitely coming down with something – his skin had felt flushed and tight all week – maybe Thursday was just concerned for him?

 

But then on Friday evening at the pub Thursday had his arm draped along the back of the bench Morse was sitting on, and his thumb started to brush ever so gently back and forth against the bare skin at the back of Morse’s neck. It was like being transported back in time to his school physics class and learning about electric charge - that feeling of all the hair on his arm standing up. Now it started at the nape of his neck, then spread down his back and arms as he shivered at the sensation.

 

For the first few seconds, Morse thought it must be accidental; Thursday was just moving his fingers and happened to come in contact with him. But the touch continued, more of a circling motion now, and a quick glance sideways at Thursday’s face proved his seeming obliviousness as he carried on talking. Morse snuck a look at Jakes, across the table, but luckily he was too busy watching a girl nearby to have paid any attention to Thursday’s hand. Morse realised he’d slipped into a dangerous way of thinking, had spent nearly a minute guiltily enjoying the feather-light brushes and the way they made his skin tingle, had even been worried about whether or not others would _see_ , when his first reaction should have been to move away immediately.

 

Move, he told himself.  _Move_. He leant forwards; trying to keep the motion smooth and not reflect the internal wrench he felt pulling away from Thursday’s hand. Resting his elbows on the table, he looked determinedly at anything but Thursday, who’d gone quiet. Not that Morse could remember what he’d been talking about before – in fact, the last couple of minutes felt a bit how the others at the station described being drunk; he remembered what had happened but couldn’t help thinking, ‘God, did I do that?’

 

His empty glass was no help. “Another?” he asked the table, and Jakes’ head swung round in surprise at his being the one to ask. They put in their requests and Morse wandered to the bar. Moving away felt a bit like a blast of icy, fresh air; shocking but crisp and clear, easier to breathe. He ordered, and eyed the selection of spirits behind the bar as the barman took his time chatting with another customer.

 

Despite his best efforts, Morse looked back at their table after a moment. Thursday had taken his arm from the back of the bench and was staring down at his hands in front of him. He looked worn, Morse thought. Like he needed someone to cup his face in their hand, and stroke their fingers over his cheek. He would close his eyes wearily, and let out a tired sigh, and then smile slightly. “ _Morse_ ,” he would say.

 

“Sir,” the barman said again, and Morse jerked his gaze back in front of him, to where three pints were waiting.

 

“Sorry,” he said with an apologetic grimace, and gathered them in his arms. As he delivered the drinks to the table, he contemplated taking the seat beside Jakes instead, but Thursday was already shifting over a little, as though to make more room for him, and his feet took him back there without further instruction.

 

“What do you fancy to the match tomorrow then?” asked Thursday, sounding none too optimistic, and he and Jakes were away again. Morse had never cared to follow their talk on football, having a complete lack of interest in the subject. His thoughts drifted to work, to the classical concert he would be attending tomorrow night, and then, sometime later, to the delicious warmth of Thursday’s thigh resting against his. A feeling of lassitude and contentment pervaded his entire body. The sheer oddness of that feeling was the only thing that alerted him, and with suddenly tense muscles he immediately drew his left leg in from its sprawl.

 

At least he thought Thursday hadn’t noticed, or minded, but a moment later that illusion was dispelled; Thursday’s hand came down to rub at the spot where Morse’s leg had rested a moment before, as though easing an ache. Morse’s hand twitched with the involuntary urge to reach over and cover Thursday’s; instead he rubbed it across his eyes.

 

“Bit of a headache,” he said, and wondered if they could hear the lie. “Think I’ll go home.”

 

“Don’t fancy Oxford’s chances either, do you?” laughed Jakes, and Thursday said nothing.

 

It was about a twenty minute walk; Morse set a brisk pace and allowed himself to think of nothing but the movement of the muscles in his legs and the pace of his breathing. It was a cool, clear, autumn night, and the crisp air felt good against his overheated skin. He realised at some point that he’d left his coat back at the pub, but it was too late to go back for it.

 

He was chilled and starting to shiver by the time he reached his flat, but he welcomed the sensation; it felt like a strangely just punishment for… something. On autopilot, he shrugged out of his jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs, and moved to his record collection. He flipped slowly through them, feeling the slightly worn edges of the oldest sleeves and the firm crease of the newer ones. His fingers lingered over Mozart – Le nozze di Figaro – and strains of the music played in his head. Decided, he carefully slid the record out of its jacket and gently fitted it to the player. The needle swung smoothly into place under his guidance, and the opening notes filled the room.

 

He stood next to the record player for several minutes, letting the music wash over him. Then he retrieved a bottle of scotch he’d stashed in the cupboard, just in case, but never opened, and did his best to finish the whole thing.

 

\---

 

He woke late on Saturday morning, and this time the headache was real. At least he hadn’t dreamt at all last night. His stomach rebelled as he untangled himself from the sheets, and he stumbled half-blindly in the direction of the bathroom, barely making it to his knees before being violently sick into the toilet. A moment’s rest followed, with his forehead resting gratefully against the cool porcelain rim of the toilet bowl, and then another wave of sickness surged through him and he lost the remainder of the contents of his stomach.

 

Afterwards, he felt a bit like he’d been kicked in the guts repeatedly; his stomach muscles protesting as he slowly dragged himself to his feet and washed his mouth out in the sink. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d protested to Inspector Thursday that he didn’t drink at all, and now he was drinking alone in his flat to the point where he was sick the next day. Not the best start to the weekend.

 

When he was somewhat cleaner, and had forced a boiled egg down, Morse went for a long walk and made an internal list.

 

The possibilities were: one, his distant and never-quite-acknowledged attraction to his DI had blossomed into a full blown and particularly powerful infatuation, and Thursday had, at the same time, inconveniently started touching him more often. A lot more often. Morse would also have to be getting ill, because the constant almost-itchy-but-not-quite sensation prickling across his skin, feeling like he had a slight fever, weird little aches and general distractedness were becoming annoying. The infatuation would explain the dreams, he supposed, and the feeling when Thursday touched him, and his general distractedness around the man. And several people had the flu at the station recently; it wasn’t so unlikely that Morse just had a milder version of it.

 

Alternatively, possibility number two, he’d formed a life bond with DI Thursday when they’d first touched skin to skin several days before.

 

Was that even possible? Morse wasn’t sure he’d ever read about someone forming more than one bond in a lifetime, whether after their partner had died or the bond dissolved through other means. There was no technical reason why it shouldn’t happen, he supposed, if one dismissed overly romantic reasoning, he’d just assumed… And most people didn’t even experience one bond, so what was the likelihood of him having two?

 

Even if Morse weren’t horrified at the thought of another bond in the first place, the thought of one with Thursday would be the very last thing from ideal. Mrs Thursday had been so nice to him that even the _thought_ that he might have a bond with her husband felt like a betrayal.

 

Thursday didn’t seem to have noticed anything; the only evidence Morse had there was the increase in how tactile the man had been. But admittedly, some of the times Thursday had touched him in the last few days were exceedingly out of character. He hadn’t said anything though -not seemed to be struggling with any changes or had any appearance of feeling the physical effects. Could it have been sheer chance?

 

Morse had a better memory than most, and could still remember many of the books he had once read upon the subject. Still, that had been years ago, and he’d made a point of avoiding the subject for some time. Perhaps it was time to revisit the library.


	2. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morse plays with his books (read: exposition)

Walking into the Bodleian was like greeting an old friend he hadn’t seen for years. The familiar lines of the architecture, the arrangement of tables and shelves of books were all evocative of times long past, but it was the smell which provoked the most visceral reaction; slightly musty and well loved. Morse expected the cascade of memories, but when they came they were fond ones; signing the pledge when he first entered the library, his awe and excitement, and many an afternoon which merged unnoticed into an evening because he was too wrapped up in his reading.

 

Although Morse had been here with Susan often enough, studying side by side, the thought of her head leaning on his shoulder as they worked did not have the usual bitter tang of such memories. Being able to think of time with her, and of things they used to do together, without feeling a jarring echo in himself was noteworthy, but he feared the reason for it.

 

To start with he shunned the desk and librarians and wandered amongst the shelves. It always incited wonder in him, that every book published in England could be found here, as well as so many others; he’d once tried to calculate how long it might take to read them all. His feet remembered the way to the sections he was looking for – psychology and biology – but he walked the long way around past the classics. The works of Homer, Pliny and Vergil occupied exactly the same places they had six years before, and made him think of standing and reading the texts aloud in front of his classmates.

 

He didn’t linger long, and soon found the texts on bonding; only two shelves worth. Though if one were to include the works found in the fictional section he had no doubt that the number would increase drastically. There was only one new title since his last visit, a thick hardback with a dark green cover published the previous year. Cor vinculum; epidemiological and sociological impact in the modern age, the silvered lettering on the spine declared.

 

When Morse drew the book out he disturbed a thin line of dust along the edge of the binding that the cleaners had not reached – clearly this was not a popular subject. It hadn’t been in his day here, either, which had always rather surprised Morse. Surely upon learning one was affected by a condition, one would want to learn everything one could about it? Of course, many people were reassured by a trip to their doctor, or what they read in the popular magazines, and it wasn’t as though people thought of life bonds as a worrisome thing. Susan had once said what did it matter, to the average human being? Why would they care about the history of the thing, and a deeper understanding than could be found in popular media? It was a viewpoint that Morse couldn’t understand at all.

 

The lack of available texts here represented not a lack of academic interest – although it was hard to get funding in such areas – but a lack of available resources and means of analysing data.

 

The foreword and introduction to the volume Morse had picked out expanded on this. It was difficult, the text said, to form concrete conclusions from subjective reports and observations. What one person might describe as a ‘painful ache,’ another categorised as ‘burning agony.’ Were they indeed the same sensation, described differently, or was there variation in the symptoms experienced? The latter was widely acknowledged to be true when considering the spectrum of symptoms – and here Morse remembered Susan getting terrible headaches whenever they were apart for too long, during the first couple of months they were together, which he’d never felt on his end.

 

Indeed, if what he was currently experiencing  _was_ the effects of a bond, then it was already significantly different to what he’d felt during his first; another source of doubt.

 

At first he barely skimmed over the list of symptoms of bond formation, eager to move on to newer territory: sudden obsessive thinking fixated on one person, emotional instability, skin irritation, unusual erotic dreams, mental distraction, headaches, ‘phasing out’ while in contact, sleeplessness, night-sweats, discomfort when apart, atypical irritability, increased sensory sensitivity, nausea, elevated temperature, increased tactile urges, increased sexual libido, animalistic urges… from there the page devolved into a long list of ‘urges.’

 

Then Morse forced himself to go back and read through it again, and think of how many of them he could have applied to himself in the last week. Individually, they meant nothing, even several together could be written off as illness, or normal sexual attraction. But he ticked eleven or twelve off the list before even moving down to the ‘sexual urges’ section, which belied coincidence.

 

Morse didn’t get more than two pages into the book proper before accumulating a list of over ten references on his notepad – flicking to the end of the chapter he found that most were books he’d already read, but four were scientific articles published in the last few years.

 

Unfolding himself from his position leaning against the shelves, Morse tore off the sheet of notepaper and placed it in the book as a bookmark. Stopping at the front desk yielded information on where to look for the more popular journals he was interested in, the British Medical Journal, for example, and which sections of the stacks were reserved for the remaining journal publications.

 

The journal section had a very different atmosphere to the rest of the library – there were still dusty bound tomes of collected issues, but also box files containing individual, recent publications that made the library seem more modern. Actually, it put Morse in mind of the records room at the police station.

 

He set himself up at a desk and started gradually accumulating articles as he went, cross-referencing them from the book. Hours later, he had collected a tidy pile of publications, and half a notepad’s worth of notes.

 

His most pressing question, was it possible for one person to experience more than one bond in their lifetime, remained unanswered. The book discussed previous speculation upon the subject, but there was no scientific evidence or even historical reports to support either conclusion - with the notable exception of the tale of Henry VIII, whose multiple ‘bonds’ were widely accepted to have been a fabrication to allow him to remarry in the hope of gaining a male heir.

 

On the topic of marriage, and the legal ramifications of bonding, the book was much more forthcoming. In the not uncommon case that one partner in a bond was already in a relationship, the law was firmly on the side of the bonded couple, even if this meant the dissolution of a marriage. Historically, this had been the only way to gain religious acceptance for divorce; following the formation of the Church of England, and also true for other Protestant faiths, it was ordained that bonds were a direct sign from God that the pair were meant to be together (as compared to the previous, and still held in strict Catholicism, view that such urges outside of marriage were surely a sign of wickedness). This had obviously caused some issues with homosexual bonds, but until recently the Church, as well as the public at large, had refused to believe that such bonds existed.

 

The recent discovery ten years before of a simple chemical test, which detected the abundance of a certain hormone which was always elevated in life bonded couples, had finally led to the acceptance of male/male and female/female bonds, and thus the wider acceptance of such relationships as a whole. Until three years ago, they merely proved whether an individual was bonded, not whom they were bonded with. New studies on the major histocompatibility complex showed complementary adaptation in the immune systems of bonded couples, and research had recently resulted in a more refined assay to determine bond status. The test was also now administered in cases for divorce on the basis of new bonds, so that it couldn’t be used as an excuse to fraudulently end a marriage.

 

The words seemed cool and clinical on the page, but Morse couldn’t help but think of the real people whose lives were affected, the husbands and wives who were happy one day and cast aside the next.

 

It was a thought that he could not abide connecting to the Thursday family.

 

Onto his next topic of interest then, that of bonds which were ignored and unacknowledged. Here again, the scientific evidence was thinner, with few recent developments. Art and literature were full of examples of unfulfilled bonds and their tragic consequences. Romeo and Juliet. Helen and Paris. Tristan and Iseult. Compared to their declared agony, thus far Morse had found that he could live with the slight temperature and periodic mild stomach-ache with equanimity; the rest was just self-control. What he wasn’t sure of was how it would develop – if the love tragedies of old were as over dramatized as he suspected or if there was any kernel of truth to them.

 

This, he had no personal experience of; he and Susan had been a couple practically from the moment they had been introduced. Fate, he had thought at the time, that he had found someone so perfectly suited for him; now he could not even separate out which were his own developing feelings for her and which had been due to the bond. A fact which she had ended up resenting keenly, on her end.

 

It was, of course, almost impossible to keep bonded couples apart; especially in the early stages of development. Few people had the desire or will to resist the effects, and with bonded unions so widely sanctioned there was little reason to. ‘All other concerns, all logic and reason, withered in the face of the bond.’ Morse thought that sentence a little fanciful, even as he guiltily remembered his own self-control slipping once or twice in the last week.

 

The only accounts then, were from hundreds of years before, where the language and sentiment could hardly be taken seriously, or from extreme cases more recently. It was speculated that it might be quite common in countries where religious or cultural regimes were still very restrictive, but it was extremely difficult to gather data on something that nobody would talk about.

 

Actually, Morse found, the largest population suffering from the phenomenon in Britain was where there was an age difference in the bond, and one partner was too young. Bonds didn’t form before people were sexually mature, of course, but that was still several years before society acknowledged coming of age. It was the most heard of reason for teachers running off with their students, but those that did were breaking an oath they had sworn when they joined the school – put in place for exactly such reasons. Accounts then, of adults and teenagers who formed these bonds  _but waited_ , were the most readily available source on unconsummated bonds. From what Morse read, it didn’t seem as though things got worse, as long as they were properly managed, but the issues became cumulatively harder to resist when persisting over long periods of time.

 

So then. Either there was no bond, and Morse was having the oddest week of his life. Or there was a bond, and he would gain first-hand knowledge of some of these theories on abstinence.

 

There were other options, of course, in theory, but Morse could not bring himself to read the chapter ‘When Bonds are Broken.’ Not even for Thursday. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was going to be Morse all the way, but now I'm wondering if I should include a Thursday POV chapter in here. Thoughts?


	3. Touching. The Consequences of Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morse goes into touch withdrawal and becomes slightly irrational.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd make a disclaimer for this being self-indulgent, but that's true of the entire fic so *shrugs*

There were two different ways Morse usually listened to music, depending on the situation and his mood. The first was to focus, absolutely, on the interplay of notes and voices; to become so engrossed in the music that particularly poignant passages could move him almost to tears. At other times, music formed a backdrop for his thoughts, whether he was trying to work through a problem or unwind after a long day, releasing the things on his mind one by one. Music had alternatively been his salvation, his comfort, his muse.

 

What it had never been was inappreciable. And yet, as Morse sat in the old hall at Beaufort College put aside for the concert that night, he struggled to hear the music at all.  The lights were too bright, causing small motes to dance in front of his eyes, and every small rustle of a program or someone shifting in their seat sounded as though it was magnified ten times.

 

Morse twitched with irritation as the person in front of him murmured something to their neighbour again, and had to forcibly restrain himself from tapping them on the shoulder and telling them to desist. He could barely hear the music at all; it seemed to come and go as though he were searching for a station for a radio and could only discern the odd fragment. The program informed him they were currently playing Meditation from the opera Thaïs – a piece he had never failed to find beauty in –but the music wasn’t weaving its usual patterns in his mind and remained colourless and dull.

 

Ten minutes more of strumming his fingers irritably against his thigh later, he stood and wove his way to the exit, half-heartedly applauding the end of a piece as he moved. Morse had never left a concert early in his entire life, but he’d sat through forty minutes of it by that point and things had shown no sign of improvement.

 

He caught the bus home, and the smell of the petrol fumes, unwashed bodies and even the paper roll of greasy chips that the person sitting behind him was eating made his stomach clench with nausea. His head started to swim severely enough that he got off two stops early and walked the rest of the way; he didn’t want to end up vomiting on the pavement.

 

Definitely ill, he thought as he stripped off and submerged himself in a hot bath. The heat of the water worked wonders – his muscles had been taut like coiled springs all afternoon, and now they gradually unwound. The fine shivers and prickling which had been parading over his skin dissipated, and his head lolled against the rim of the tub. Now _, now_ , he found he could hear music in his head; it was as though his ears had collected and filtered it, and only now chosen to release it onwards. His eyes closed in pleasure as notes played in his head, and he…

 

Woke up to a bath full of cold water and a cramp in his leg. Wincing, he hauled himself upright, sheets of water falling off him. He flexed the leg, and almost fell as he put weight on it getting out of the tub. He must have been in there for an hour. It was ten o’ clock now, and he eschewed a drink and reading both to clamber straight into bed with an extra blanket. He was too tired to do anything more.

 

On Sunday morning he didn’t get out of bed. He contemplated it, then slid back into a hazy doze; woke again, rolled over, dozed again. The only thing which eventually forced him to move was the pressing need to visit the loo.

 

After washing his hands, he got a look at his refection in the bathroom mirror. He looked exhausted, almost haggard, his skin pale and wan. The idea of sickness was this time properly dismissed, as he finally made the connection that this was the first time all week that he’d not seen Thursday in more than twenty four hours.

 

It was a depressing thought, and an even more depressing realisation of the situation. Morse hadn’t considered the ramifications of weekends, of two days together of not being around Thursday. He‘d never experienced any undue effects of not seeing Susan for a day or so, when they’d been together, but then he’d already noticed things were different, this time around. And he couldn’t deny to himself any longer that this was a ‘this time around.’

 

Morse wasn’t one to wallow, but his combined misery at the discomfort of chills, aches and a powerful, irrational longing to see his DI were enough to make him retreat under the blankets again. The world could go hang itself, he thought mulishly, and retrieved his copy of Dante to take with him – it seemed apt.

 

The knock on his door came at around two in the afternoon. Beyond stirring at some point in the late morning to make porridge which he’d barely picked at, Morse had made no effort to do anything constructive. He certainly didn’t want to deal with his neighbours, or an irate landlord, or the local church association. The knock came again, more insistently.

 

Morse waited a moment, but the noise didn’t subside. He laid his book aside, and pushed back the bed covers. He was only in his vest and pants, entirely unsuitable to be seen. He would shock the life out of anyone at the door, that was for sure.

 

The knock was more of a pounding, this time.

 

Morse hauled himself upright, and fished for the pair of trousers discarded on the floor. It must be something urgent, no-one would disturb him on a Sunday otherwise. “I’m coming,” he said loudly, and the attack on his door ceased. He pulled on the trousers and started looking for a clean shirt, and then the knocking came again, as though the person behind the door couldn’t wait one more minute.

 

 “ _Alright!”_ He strode to the door and turned the latch, yanking it open forcefully to glare at the person on the other side. A glare which he could only maintain for a few seconds before his knees went weak with the understanding that it was  _Thursday_  at his door.

 

They stared at each other for a moment, Morse shocked that Thursday was there at all, Thursday looking lost but probably just equally shocked by Morse’s appearance – oh God, he didn’t even have a  _shirt_ on – and then Thursday started forward with a determined expression.

 

Morse’s hand came up and slammed into the doorframe right in front of Thursday, his arm barring the way and denying entrance.  There was no possible version of reality in which it was a good idea for Thursday to be in his flat right now, and Morse had to protect them both.

 

“Morse.” Thankfully Thursday sounded bemused rather than angry, and Morse dragged his eyes up from Thursday’s tie to try and focus on his face. “Can I come in?”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” Morse mumbled. Thursday waited, and after a moment Morse realised he expected an explanation. “There could be…“ he started weakly, and paused for too long to try and think of an excuse. “You kept _knocking_ ,” he said suddenly, accusingly, as he remembered what he’d been annoyed about before.

 

Thursday looked him over. “Morse. You’re not well, lad, anyone can see that,” Thursday said kindly. “I was… in the neighbourhood, so I thought I’d come and check on you.”

 

His hand came up to grip Morse’s arm where it stretched across the doorway, and at the first touch of Thursday’s skin against his Morse’s vision whited out a little – he must have swayed where he stood because Thursday took a step towards him. “Easy now, lad,” he murmured, and his thumb pressed firmly against the crook of Morse’s elbow. Morse let out a ragged breath, and leaned heavily against the doorframe. “Let’s get you into bed.”

 

Thursday slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him away from the wall, and through sheer persistence got Morse turned around and shuffling in the direction of his rumpled bed.

 

“I’m fine,” Morse protested, belatedly trying to pull away. Thursday’s arm was wrapped tightly round him though, looped around his side, and Morse’s struggle subsided in the wake of the wonderful scratch of Thursday’s coat against the bare skin of his arms and shoulder.

 

Thursday huffed. “Pull the other one. Here.” He deposited Morse on the bed, and left him sitting there as he moved quickly back across the room to shut the door to the flat. “Now, suppose you tell me what’s wrong with you?” Morse’s eyes tracked Thursday’s progress, and when the man paused at the table to remove his coat, Morse licked his lips involuntarily.

 

“Nothing, sir. Maybe I’ve caught a cold,” he added quickly on seeing Thursday’s black look.

 

“Hmph. No maybe about it, I’d say; you’ve been a bit off all week. Mind you, I’ve been feeling odd myself; there’s something going round.” He came to sit beside Morse on the bed, and Morse shifted over a bit, trying to maintain some distance between them. His effort proved for naught when Thursday crowded in close and casually lay the back of his hand across Morse’s forehead. At his touch it was as though the rest of the world slid sideways and vanished, and a soporific haze descended on Morse. “You’ve got a bit of a – Morse? Morse.”

 

Thursday gently lowered his loose-limbed form until he was horizontal, scooping his legs up onto the bed, and fussed over covering him up with a blanket. His touches lingered - on Morse’s bare arms, shoulders, under his chin as Thursday checked his glands - and each one was blissful, even as Morse recovered enough to try and shake them off. “You’re not right, lad,” said Thursday, and Morse choked on a cynical laugh. Truer words had never been spoken. “Let me help.”

 

Just yesterday Morse had been having such lofty thoughts of his own self-control, and now here he was; not even really trying to get Thursday to leave, to stop. Morse felt as though he was taking something from the man by enjoying the contact when Thursday seemed to have no idea what was going on. Self-loathing washed over him, but he still allowed himself to relax into the bed and close his eyes when Thursday instructed him to, and the turbulence in his stomach eased as broad fingers gently carded his hair back from his forehead. God, that felt so good; he turned his face into the hand before he could help himself, and Thursday paused for a moment before resuming his ministrations.

 

“You’re alright, Morse, you just need some rest. You’re not to come in tomorrow, take a day to get over it. Do you hear me?”

 

Except that Morse couldn’t take a day off. Not when it would mean another day away from Thursday. All week, Thursday had been unknowingly regulating the bond, keeping the formation stable with his unconscious touches.  Morse hadn’t realised until now what a difference that was making. A day and a half had been enough to reduce Morse to a ball of misery in his bed; he wondered suddenly why Thursday had chosen to visit him – he certainly hadn’t thought Morse was particularly ill on Friday, so that hadn’t been his reason.

 

“Why are you here?” he rasped.

 

“I… I had meant to bring your coat back,” and here Thursday stopped for a moment, as though trying to recall why he hadn’t. “I must have left it at home. You left it at the pub, on Friday. I’ll bring it to the station for you.”

 

Morse tried to process the idea of his DI randomly deciding Morse urgently needed his coat, arriving without it – which he would surely have realised when getting out of the car - and then still coming in.

 

Meanwhile, the hand resting on Morse’s knee started to move in time with the motions of Thursday’s fingers brushing through Morse’s hair. Likely an automatic thing; what one hand was doing the other copied. Except that, as it stroked just above knee through the blanket, it had a very different effect on Morse.  All of Thursday’s other touches since he’d entered the flat had been designed to comfort, to take care of, and while Morse had somewhat embarrassingly responded like he’d been denied touch for his whole life, the whole affair had at least remained innocent.

 

Not this; perhaps there was no desirous intent on Thursday’s part, perhaps it was another unconscious attempt to soothe Morse, but Morse’s body read it entirely differently. The small movements of Thursday’s fingers on the inside of his thigh felt like they awakened a cavernous abyss of desire, and Morse could suddenly barely breathe for the sheer heady arousal he felt.

 

Feeling incredibly guilty at his response to the touch, not to mention not wanting Thursday to see its effect, Morse rolled so that his back was facing Thursday. Thursday’s hands slid slowly over him as he turned, and Morse turned his face slightly into the pillow. “I think I might rest now, sir,” he said, words partially muffled. The hands slowly withdrew from his head and leg, and Morse trembled despite himself as he waited to see if they would return.

 

“Alright,” Thursday said finally, and his voice sounded strange – thick and gravelly.

 

Morse tried to get enough moisture in his mouth to swallow. “Thank you for coming,” he mumbled, as though Thursday had been an invited guest coming for dinner.

 

Thursday patted him briefly on the shoulder, and then there were quiet noises as he gathered his coat and let himself out.

 

Morse didn’t move for half an hour, lost in endless replays of Thursday’s voice, Thursday’s touch. Eventually he pinched his arm, hard, to try and break the cycle and stop his mind drifting back again. It worked, enough that he could get up and wash his face with cold water, and after that he summoned enough presence of mind to feed himself – his appetite had returned with a vengeance – and started to feel crippling embarrassment over the way he had behaved. What must Thursday have thought of him?

 

He thought you were ill, Morse told himself firmly, which is the best you could hope for under the circumstances.

 

He felt much brighter, now, he noticed, able to make a cup of tea and browse his records and books, and contemplate going for a walk. Which suggested things might be manageable, temporarily, if he and Thursday managed to ‘accidentally’ touch a couple of times every day. Morse would have to think what to do about weekends. 

 

It wasn’t really a long-term solution though. It wouldn’t deal with his growing feelings for his DI, and wouldn’t do anything to save the Thursday’s marriage. All other things aside, Morse wasn’t sure if the bond would ever properly settle if they carried on like this.

 

\----

 

Monday morning, and Thursday gave Morse a raised eyebrow and an unhappy look as he came in with Jakes. Morse had already been at the station for an hour; so far it hadn’t been busy – apparently it had been an uneventful weekend.

 

“Type this up for me,” Jakes said, sliding a few sheets of paper onto his desk. Morse glanced at the top one – it was a report which should have been submitted on Friday. When he raised his eyes to Jakes again, the DS smiled meanly. “I told them it was with you; being a bit slow, aren’t you?” And he whistled as he strolled back to his desk. Morse gritted his teeth, and pulled the typewriter towards himself.

 

Thursday stopped by on his way out to lunch, checking up on him. Morse answered truthfully that he was feeling much better, and fine to work. “Alright then,” and Thursday squeezed his shoulder briefly before heading out. Once he was out of sight, Morse tilted his head back and let out a long sigh of relief.

 

 

\----------

 

Tuesday went smoothly – Thursday gently cuffed the back of his neck on the way in, and said he needed to learn to wash behind his ears. Morse processed some drunk and disorderly louts that had been locked in the cells overnight.

 

Thursday invited Morse to lunch with him, but Morse declined; not before fishing in Thursday’s pocket for his sandwich and announcing “Luncheon meat.”

 

“Oi!” Thursday made a grab for his lunch, and his fingers closed unyieldingly around Morse’s wrist. The DI used his other hand to triumphantly retrieve his sandwich, “Ha,” and his fingers absently squeezed Morse’s wrist before he let go and headed off.

 

\----

 

On Wednesday Morse was stuck in the records room for most of the day, reorganising in preparation for an upcoming review. He’d noticed before that the organisational system was far from optimal, but now that there was the chance to make improvements he wasn’t allowed to redesign things as he might have wanted. It was frustrating, and inefficient, and Morse was of a mind to mention it to Thursday, though he could imagine the look it would get him.

 

It was almost five before the feeling of his skin buzzing grew too distracting to continue, and he headed back to the office, only to be confronted with Thursday’s darkened room and absent coat.

 

“He and Jakes are off at an interview,” Strange volunteered unasked. “Don’t think they’ll be back in, after.”

 

“No, of course,” Morse said, and rubbed a hand absently over his stomach. When had it become a necessity, seeing Thursday? When had he started feeling secure in the knowledge that, through whatever contrivance, the DI would find some means to provide the touch Morse seemed to need to stave off the worst of the symptoms. “I might go home as well.”

 

He turned and walked towards the door, stopping short at Strange’s “It’s only five!” Even those that left dead on time didn’t leave until half past, and Morse had always been one to linger.

 

“Feels later,” he said with a tight smile, and trudged back down to records.

 

That was the night that Morse gave in.

 

It was already the third time he’d woken since going to bed, and it was still the almost pitch black which told him dawn was a long way off. He kicked the covers to one side and lay staring at a ceiling he couldn’t make out, feeling overheated and oversensitive, and tried to calm his breathing. Slow prickles of heat crept down across his chest and settled in his groin, and he shifted uncomfortably.

 

Morse closed his eyes, and again in his mind’s eye Thursday turned and _looked_ at him, with piercing, knowing eyes. Another familiar wave of heat spread through him, and Morse muttered a curse, grinding the heel of his hand against his eyelids. Opening them again to the darkness, Morse remembered Thursday sitting here on this bed beside him, only a few days before.

 

It seemed almost as though perhaps Thursday might be there right now, and Morse just couldn’t see him.

 

The thought sent a thrill of forbidden arousal through Morse, and he couldn’t shake the image. Thursday might have snuck in during the night – he’d felt Morse’s absence during the day and needed to be close to him – but then hadn’t wanted to disturb him so just watched him sleep.

 

If Morse reached out, he might touch him.

 

His left hand skated an inch across the mattress, and he almost fancied that he could feel the start of the dip caused by Thursday’s weight. He moved his hand another inch, and stopped again. It felt warmer there, beneath his fingertips, and it could have been because he was only millimetres from touching Thursday’s back. He found he couldn’t move his fingers any further - didn’t want to confirm Thursday wasn’t there and didn’t want to disturb him if he was.

 

Without conscious volition, his right hand began to trace a path down his chest, gliding smoothly across his stomach, and then moved to palm his cock through the front of his underwear. He’d been hard before he awoke, and now he let out a surprised moan at the intensity of the pressure - it was even better because Morse knew that Thursday was there. Even if Thursday wouldn’t say anything, because he didn’t want Morse to feel self-conscious, or like he was being pushed into anything, Morse _knew_.  

 

Very slowly, Morse dragged his fingertips from the base of his cock up to the tip – so lightly he could barely feel it.

 

Thursday’s eyes glimmered in the darkness.

 

Morse wrapped his fingers around himself through the fabric, and wondered if Thursday’s hand would reach out and join his. He waited for a moment, heart pounding, but there wasn’t even a slight rustle of movement. Thursday must want him to do it himself then, must want to see Morse touch himself.

 

He wet his suddenly dry lips, and gave his cock a long, slow pull, tightening his hand as little as he reached the top of the stroke. _Oh_ , that was good. His eyes fell closed, and he did it again, planting his feet on the mattress so that he could push up into the fingers holding him. Thursday might hold him exactly like this, might add a little twist, might grip a little tighter…

 

Morse stifled a moan at the slightly rough feel of Thursdays’ fingertips as they diverted to massage the tip of Morse’s cock, and he couldn’t keep himself from bucking up into his hand helplessly. It felt so good; Thursday held him so perfectly. His fingers were confident and strong and knew exactly how Morse liked to be touched.

 

Morse panted as Thursday’s strokes intensified, and he rocked into the grip again, and again and again. “Sir,” he choked out as he rode the edge of orgasm, and then he spurted into his pants, into his hand, in a wet sticky mess which instantly banished all pleasure and brought only disgust and shame. His hand dropped away to the side, and he lay breathing heavily, incredibly aware that there was no sound of anyone breathing beside him. A moment later he forced himself to turn on the bedside light, blinking rapidly as his eyes struggled to adjust.

 

There was no-one there.

 

It was simultaneously completely unsurprising and secretly devastating to find himself alone. However illogical, he had truly believed for a moment that Thursday had been there.

 

He pulled his underwear off, wiped himself down with them, and threw them vehemently across the room. How could he ever face Thursday again, having thought of his DI in such a fashion whilst touching himself? Fear and shame wrapped tightly around his chest, and Morse curled into a ball and cursed biology.

 

\------

 

The next morning he woke reluctantly, feeling the same aches and general malaise that he’d been struck down with on Sunday. He had to force himself to get dressed through sheer force of will.  It was ridiculous. He was a grown man who’d been functioning on his own for years; he didn’t need anybody else, he didn’t need a bloody bond, and he certainly wasn’t reliant on parcels of attention from his senior officer.

 

He turned up to work late, with his shirt untucked and his hair looking as though hedgehogs had been nesting in it – or so Jakes took great delight in telling him.

 

“My office, now,” barked Thursday, and Morse trailed in behind him like an errant schoolboy. The inspector closed the door behind him, and yanked on the cord to turn the blinds to the closed position. “What time do you call this, Morse? And look at you, you can’t show up at the station like this – Bright will hang you out to dry!” Thursday’s face was red and angry, and his jaw was clenched so hard Morse could almost hear his teeth grinding. “Are you listening to me?”

 

Thursday’s hand whipped out – whether to cuff him around the head or clap down on his shoulder Morse wasn’t sure - but he flinched away; both because he’d never seen Thursday this angry, not at him, and because it was all at once important that he prove to himself he didn’t  _need_  Thursday’s touch. 

 

Thursday stared at him, hand hovering mid-air, breathing heavily and nostrils flared. “Get out of here and make yourself presentable,” he growled, “and don’t ever think of coming in this late again.”

 

Morse slipped out of the office in a slight daze; atypical irritability, that had been on the list. In the gent’s he scrubbed a hand through his hair, then tried to flatten it, but lost interest before he fully fixed his shirt.  His jacket mostly covered it anyway. And what was the point; Bright barely came out of his office, and wouldn’t notice Morse if he tripped over him. Certainly no-one else would care, besides Jakes taking the occasional pot-shot at him.

 

Records again, though today his approach was more lacklustre. By half past ten he wasn’t opening the files to check they were the right ones, by eleven he wasn’t even reading the labels. He stopped, and sat down for a moment.

 

Why was he doing this? What was he trying to prove? If he was trying to out stubborn a bond, to push past it, then he was pursuing a Sisyphean task. There was no hope that the symptoms would magically resolve themselves, he knew that. He  _knew_  that. But here he was, purposefully hobbling his mental and physical abilities to the point where he couldn’t even do his work anymore. Not to mention however he was making Thursday feel, and a pang of guilt crawled through his gut at that.

 

He would have to fix this.

 

As he neared Thursday’s office, Jakes looked up from his desk. “I wouldn’t go in there, if I was you.” And for  _Jakes_ to give him such a warning, Thursday must have been a complete bear this morning.

 

Morse paused outside the office door for a moment. The blinds were still shut, so he couldn’t see inside. He tried to think of an approach – he could hand something to Thursday and then touch his hand? Brush past him? He wasn’t sure that the contact caused by either of those would be enough, and despite his own desire to touch Thursday, to be touched, he felt awkward initiating it. Somehow, it felt more alright when it was Thursday doing it; less like Morse was taking advantage. Cowardly of him, though, leaving everything up to Thursday.

 

Morse took a deep breath, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled out his shirt front entirely, so that it hung loose. Then he opened the door and stepped through.

 

Thursday looked up with a glower at the sound of the door shutting behind him, and the glare he fixed Morse with threatened violence. There was a glass of what looked like scotch in front of him – and that was beyond uncharacteristic for Thursday at work, let alone in the morning – and his eyes were slightly wild. They flicked downwards, to the state of Morse’s clothes, and his lip curled back. “Morse,” he snarled.

 

“Sir,” said Morse as insolently as possible. It wasn’t far from how he was feeling, honestly, although his heart pounded _thumpthumpthump_ in his chest.

 

Thursday levered himself to his feet slowly, leaning forward with hands pressed white-knuckled on the desk, as though giving Morse time to run for it. Morse leaned indolently back against the door, and crossed his arms across his chest.

 

 _Thumpthumpthump_.

 

“You little prick!” said Thursday, and started towards him like a charging bull in slow motion. Morse didn’t move, didn’t flinch, as Thursday’s red face stopped inches away from his and the DI gave an angry snort. “Why, I ought to –“

 

And then Thursday reached out and gathered the hanging edges of Morse’s shirt in his hand, pulling them taut. His other hand landed on Morse’s side under his jacket, sweeping downwards in a sharp, angry motion and tugging on the front of Morse’s belt. The hand holding the shirt bunched it tighter, pulled it up and thrust it just beyond the top of his trousers.

 

The universe seemed to freeze for a moment, time moving only in Morse’s head while all motion ceased. Then it sped up again, with everything different to how it had been before.

 

At some point in that second, Thursday’s motions had calmed, and he continued to tuck Morse’s shirt in with gentler, more patient hands. His breathing evened out, and the furious lines of his face smoothed until he looked almost meditative. He came to rest, finally, with one hand flattened against Morse’s belly, just above his belt, and the other resting on Morse’s hip.

 

It was perfect. Morse’s eyes slid shut with no input from him, and his head tipped back until it was resting against the solid support of the door behind him.

 

There was no sound in the room for a while except their quiet synchronised breathing.

 

Thursday’s forehead gently came to rest against his, and Morse could feel breath puff against his own cheek. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, and a rush of tingling pleasure went through his stomach at their proximity. “Morse,” Thursday said, and his voice was deep with things that Morse was afraid to name. Things that made him feel guilty, where standing in silence had somehow been acceptable.

 

“I have to get back to records,” Morse said, voice hitching halfway through as Thursday’s thumb started rubbing a small circle against his hipbone. Thursday was so close. Close enough that Morse could lean forward and kiss him. Close enough that, Morse rather thought, he wouldn’t need to because Thursday might make the first move himself given a minute.

 

It felt like a betrayal of everything important to pull away from that, but some tiny core of self demanded it, and Morse ducked out and to the side. Thursday nearly fell forward at Morse’s movement, and Morse unthinkingly reached out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. The re-initiation of contact, when the loss of it had felt so grating, was like being wrapped in a warm blanket. _Dangerous_.

 

Carefully Morse drew his hand away again, and watched Thursday shake himself as though waking from a dream. “I’d better go, sir,” he said, reaching for the door handle, voice cracking _again_. And he left Thursday looking shell shocked behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can sense a truly, wonderfully awkward conversation coming up between Thursday and Morse *happy sigh*
> 
> Also, I'm not suggesting that Thursday would necessarily have less willpower than Morse, or that he'd be likely to cheat on Win (content of other episodes aside), just that he's largely clueless as to what's happening so doesn't even realise what he's doing half the time until he's already done it.


	4. Bonded Fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse and Thursday finally talk about the bond during episode 1.2 Fugue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This assumes familiarity with the episode in question, and contains spoilers and a fair few direct quotes.

It had gone too far, Morse had known that immediately upon leaving Thursday’s office – the cold, sick feeling in his stomach attested to it. What had just occurred couldn’t be written off, or ignored, or forgotten, not by him and certainly not by Thursday.

 

“Tear you a new one, did he?” Jakes inquired, and Morse looked up, startled. “I’m not surprised. He’s already yelled at most of the station today. I did warn you.” Morse gave a stiff nod, still not trusting his voice, and retreated back to records.

 

Rational thought had returned, and he processed files on autopilot more capably than he had since the following morning. Scientific research bedamned, this certainly felt like it was escalating. And there was a very limited pool of options available to him. Acknowledge the bond, and almost definitely wreck Thursday’s marriage and home. Refuse to acknowledge the bond, and keep limping on in what seemed an unsustainable fashion – one which would ruin the Thursdays anyway. Or the final option now hovering at the periphery of his mind, which he was still scared to examine too closely.

 

Unfortunately being stuck there all day meant a lot of time to himself to think. Normally something he would have cherished, it was currently a burden.

 

The next few days passed with no progress on a resolution; Thursday was stiff and formal with him, obviously making a conscious effort to keep his distance. He seemed to have a permanent frown on his face for the entirety of Friday, or at least every time Morse saw him.

 

Five minutes before the time that Thursday usually left, Morse knocked on his office door. Leaving it open, he stood in the doorway and gave a banal update on the day’s activities. Thursday stood, but didn’t move from behind his desk.

 

“But it’s time for you to leave, sir, I’m sorry to have kept you.” Morse took Thursday’s hat from the hook by the door, and held it out. He willed Thursday not to throw him out, to go back to the small, casual touches he’d been employing before.

 

“Hmm,” was all Thursday said, but he came forward and reached for the hat. His fingers closed around the brim alongside Morse’s, and Morse held on a moment longer than necessary. “Morse-“

 

“Have a nice weekend, sir,” Morse said hurriedly, and backed out of the office. Thursday didn’t call for him to stay.

 

Which left the problem of the weekend again. Try to tough it out, and hope that he wasn’t a complete wreck by Monday morning? Morse wasn’t sure that was feasible, given his disgraceful reaction to not seeing the DI on Wednesday. He couldn’t risk something like that happening again – it hadn’t been good for Thursday, either. Show up at Thursday’s house? Aside from sitting outside in the car, he’d only been there the once, and even then only just inside the door. The man wouldn’t thank him for showing up out of the blue.

 

He weathered Saturday – it didn’t start getting bad until the evening anyway - and rang the Thursday’s house at eleven on Sunday morning, when he was sure they must be back from church.

 

A young, female voice answered – not Mrs Thursday. “Could I speak to Inspector Thursday, please?” he asked politely.

 

“Hold on a moment.” There was a clunk as she put the receiver down. “Dad? Dad? Phone for you.”

 

“Thursday speaking.” Morse’s fingers clenched around the phone.

 

“Sir,” he managed. “I have something I need to drop off for you. I wondered if you’d mind me coming by.”

 

“Morse? What is it? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Thursday sounded justifiably irked at having his Sunday disturbed.

 

“I’ll show you when I get there, sir. It won’t take a moment.”

 

Thursday paused, then, “Alright.”

 

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there in half an hour.” Morse hung up with trembling fingers, picked up his bag and left the house. The journey felt interminable – Morse was going to start associating buses with feeling sick at this rate.

 

It didn’t take half a minute for the door to open after he knocked, and Morse was relieved that it was Thursday who opened it. He didn’t seem in the same temper as he had earlier in the week, but he wasn’t quite right either – constantly reaching up to tug at his open collar as though it were too tight. “Morse.”

 

“Sir.” Morse hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead. “I thought you should have these, just in case.” Morse drew a document wallet out of his bag, and passed it over.

 

Thursday took it from him and flipped it open, glancing through the papers within. Morse started to sweat. It had been a thin pretext at best, but he’d counted on Thursday touching him when he took the files. Which he hadn’t.

 

Finally Thursday’s eyes came back up to fix on Morse, still standing adrift in the doorway. “These are the accounts from the Richardson case.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Now Morse stood ramrod straight, looking at a point somewhere past Thursday’s right shoulder.

 

“And you took them home with you?” Thursday asked, his tone disbelieving.

 

“I thought they were worth a look over, sir,” Morse said, heart in mouth. “In case anyone had been siphoning funds; that would be motive, sir.”

 

“Yes, that would be motive.” Thursday was quiet for a minute, and he and Morse stood deadlocked in the doorway. “Except that Jakes already went over that on Friday. We have a solid suspect in custody, for it, Morse,” he reprimanded. “Did you find anything new?”

 

“No, sir,” Morse admitted. “I just thought-“

 

“Well don’t!” Thursday snapped. “Don’t think about cases you aren’t supposed to be working. Don’t turn up on my doorstep on a Sunday and waste my time with work you know has already been done.”

 

The scolding didn’t sting any less for being expected. The trembling in Morse’s hands was worse, now, and he shoved them in his pockets. He had a concert to sing at this evening – how was he supposed to get through that?

 

Thursday sighed. “Christ lad, take them back to the station, I don’t need them. Here.” He held the file out, and Morse took it by the nearest edge. Thursday’s eyes fell to Morse’s hand, and Morse tried to keep it as still and steady as possible. “Here,” Thursday said again, and his free hand came up to fold around Morse’s, as though making sure he had a firm grip on the folder.

 

Morse closed his eyes for a second, and swallowed. “Yes, sir. Sorry to disturb you, sir.”

 

“I think you and I need to have a little chat tomorrow, Morse.” Thursday waited until Morse jerked his head in a nod. “My office, in the morning. See you then.”

 

Morse didn’t wait for the door to close, pulling the folder to his chest and walking back down the path. He felt like all of the blood had rushed to his head.

 

Thursday had either figured it out, or was going to try and have Morse transferred for inappropriate behaviour. Morse wasn’t sure which he feared worse. 

 

 

\------

 

Monday morning brought a murder, however, and meeting Thursday and Jakes at the train yard. At least Evelyn Balfour wasn’t a grisly corpse – suffocation with a scarf – as Morse wasn’t sure how well his already queasy stomach would have dealt with a bloody one.

 

After that it was a catalogue of personal errors; he walked down the tracks with his shoulder bumping against Thursday’s. He tried to follow Thursday up into the train car rather than letting Jakes go first, and was reminded only by the sergeant loudly clearing his throat. He stood too close to Thursday at the scene. He spoke to Thursday too brazenly, as though to a friend rather than a superior.

 

Morse could see it rubbing Jakes the wrong way, saw Dr DeBryn look askance at him, but felt rather like a runaway train unable to stop it’s forward momentum despite seeing the broken bridge ahead.

 

Thursday gave him a look as they exited the carriage, and opened his mouth as if to say something. Jakes was there first, however, telling Morse to finish up there and then talk to the people at her work. Making snide comments about Morse’s ‘theories.’

 

Morse would have been more irritated at being shunted back to general duties if he hadn’t been so grateful to escape Thursday’s searching gaze.

 

It was Tuesday morning before the inspector tried again, indicating his office with a tilt of his head after Morse told he and Jakes about the message he’d found - ‘Un bacio ancora’ – ‘One kiss more,’ as Thursday had said. That was derailed by the report of another body – a Mrs Madison – and it wasn’t until he came back to report that he and Thursday were alone in his office.

 

“One day I’ll send you out for a routine enquiry and it’ll be just that,” Thursday said wryly. “But I won’t hold my breath. You’d find something suspicious in a saint’s sock drawer.”

 

Morse rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment. He’d been curious about Thursday’s translation earlier, but the DI was a very private man. He might get offended, if Morse inquired. Curiousity won. “I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”

 

Thursday gave a slight nod, taking a puff from his pipe. “More under my hat than nits,” he said, clearly enjoying Morse’s surprise. “We came up through Italy after North Africa. Landed at Regia, then on to Cassino.” Thursday looked pensive. “Sit down, lad,” he added.

 

“Sir, I-“

 

“Sit,” Thursday said implacably. Morse sat. After watching him for a moment, Thursday sighed and put out his pipe. “We’ve been dancing around this for a couple of weeks now, haven’t we, although I didn’t realise it. I thought I was going mad.” Morse dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’m right, aren’t I? How long have you known?”

 

“I-“ Morse stopped and cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure at first. Thought maybe I was just sick. Did some research at the library.” He laughed self-deprecatingly.

 

“But you’re sure now?”

 

Morse shrugged. “I think so. I mean, assuming you feel..”

 

“Mmm. That why you brought me those ridiculous files on Sunday?”

 

“I really was sorry to disturb you, sir,” Morse said earnestly. He fiddled with his jacket for a moment. “More than a day just seems to – seems to be too much.”

 

“Mmm.” Thursday sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that explains a few things. And besides, I’m the one who barged in on you last weekend.”

 

They sat in silence for a minute. “The question is, of course,” started Thursday, and then Jakes knocked on the door. He seemed annoyed to find Morse there, but Morse had bigger problems than Jakes right now.

 

“Right, fetch the car round,” Thursday instructed after Jakes told them about the fingerprints of the builder being on Mrs Balfour’s handbag. He moved towards Morse and the door, and unthinkingly Morse took down his hat and coat for him.

 

That gave Thursday pause, and he quietly drew the door closed again. “Morse, I’ve been… taking liberties,” he said carefully. “I didn’t even realise how much. We need to have a proper talk about this, but for now-“

 

Morse placed the coat in his hands, deliberately brushing the back of Thursday’s fingers. “I get sick, if not, sir,” he muttered, staring determinedly at the floor.

 

“Right,” Thursday exhaled sharply, as though he’d been punched. “Right.” This time it was Thursday who reached out and deliberately held Morse’s wrist, as though he was taking his pulse. “You idiot, Morse, you should have said.”

 

Morse still couldn’t look at him, and after a moment Thursday dropped his hand and shook out his coat. “What about this builder?” Morse managed, and was thankful when Thursday returned to talking about the case as though nothing else had passed between them.

 

Morse’s own investigations into Mr Nimmo were unfruitful; aside from learning that he may have had a love of opera. Thursday seemed to have made progress with his own theory, however, and despite Morse’s doubts they’d arrested the builder for the murder of Mrs Balfour. Morse was sure it was more than that though, and was still thinking the case over as they meet DeBryn in the morgue for news about Mrs Madison.

 

The pathologist confirmed that Morse’s instincts had been right about the tea, and said “A quick word, Morse?” as they turned to leave. Morse glanced at Thursday.

 

“I’ll wait by the car,” the inspector said agreeably. Once he was gone, Morse turned an inquisitive gaze on DeBryn.

 

“It might not be my place, Morse, but I wanted to see if everything was alright?” DeBryn didn’t look at Morse as he asked, flipping through his book of poisonous plants.

 

Morse remembered regretfully his sharpness in the morning at Mrs Madison’s house. He’d been feeling hot and achy again at the time, and nervous about the looming threat of a talk with Thursday. “I’m sorry about this morning, Doctor.” 

 

“That’s as maybe.” Debryn cut a sideways glance at him. “But it’s not all of it.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Morse said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. Had the doctor noticed something? Yesterday, today?

 

“Don’t you?”

 

Morse hesitated, and then gestured at the door. “I should really be going. Inspector Thursday will be waiting.”

 

“Morse.” DeBryn watched him go.

 

\-----

 

The first Morse knew of the topic of Thursday’s talk with Bright, and his own secondment to the case, was when the DI told Jakes not to pick him up in the morning. “Morse can fetch me. You’re off general duties ‘til further notice. Eight fifteen sharp, alright?”

 

Picking Thursday up from his house had an entirely different feel this time to when he was here almost two weeks ago; he hadn’t had more than a suspicion then, about the way things stood between them.

 

He didn’t want to go in, it felt wrong, disrespectful. “It’s probably best if I wait in-“

 

“I think it’s probably best if you just do as you’re told.” Morse huffed a surprised laugh at her insistence; this had to be Joan. He hadn’t seen her last time.

 

The interaction between the Thursdays was fascinating to Morse; he’d never had this kind of teasing relationship with his sister, and neither his parents nor his father and stepmother had ever exhibited the kind of everyday affection between Thursday and his wife.

 

Morse ducked his head in embarrassment as Mrs Thursday adjusted her husband’s collar and handed him his sandwich – feeling like he should give them their privacy. “Come home safe. There there, you’ll do, Fred,” she said as she waved them out of the door.

 

Once they were in the car, Thursday rested his hand on the gearstick, so that Morse had to nudge it aside with a laugh before he could drive. He gave the DI a brief look of thanks, and the corner of Thursday’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

 

And then there was Doctor Daniel Cronyn. A psychiatrist. Morse disliked psychiatrists on principle, not because he dismissed the study of the mind but rather from overexposure to them after he was sent down. When there had been a general misguided attempt to ‘fix’ him. Cronyn seemed to have nothing useful to say, telling them they were dealing with a disturbed mind, as though that were a great revelation. Morse regretted snorting at his hubris, however, as after that Cronyn seemed to be watching him in particular.

 

“We’ll stop him,” Morse said tightly.

 

Cronyn focused in on him. “How? You think you’re going to appeal to his nobler instincts, his better angels? He doesn’t have any.” The length of his stare made Morse shift on the spot uncomfortably. “The only thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is he will kill again.”

 

\-----

 

Morse was still unsettled by the encounter with Dr Cronyn as they drove out to Nimmo’s address – Drovers rest. The roads were badly signposted as they got further into the countryside, and Morse might have missed one in his distraction. It became clear they’d taken a wrong turning as the car bumped over the dirt track into a field.

 

“Pull over for a minute,” Thursday said, “I don’t think this is it.” Morse slowed the car to a halt, and looked over his shoulder in preparation to reverse. Thursday put a hand on his arm. “Stop for a minute, Morse.”

 

Morse put the handbrake on, and looked out at the sun shining on the fields. It was a beautiful day, but all appreciation for it was lost in anticipation of what Thursday might say.

 

After a moment, when it was clear than Morse wasn’t going to speak first, Thursday started. “We need to finish our talk, you and I.” Morse thought about Mrs Thursday straightening her husband’s collar that morning; the fond look on her face. “Did your books tell you anything useful?”

 

Morse squinted out of the window. “Not really, sir.”

 

“Never thought I’d see the day you’d admit that,” Thursday rumbled, and Morse cast him a quick glance. The slight smile on Thursday’s face faded quickly. “What’s to be done, then?”

 

“Nothing, I suppose,” Morse said with a suddenly dry mouth. “I could start showing you proper respect, and shaking your hand every morning.” His joke fell flat.

 

“That’s not all of it, though, is it?” Thursday asked unhappily. “We’ve been doing that anyway, most days, and I’ve still felt – and you were bad enough that I thought you had the flu.” Morse shrugged mutely. “I knew a couple of blokes with one in the war,” and Morse noticed they still weren’t naming this thing between them, “but they never had anything like this – they were away from their wives for months!”

 

“It’s, uh, it’s different, sir. Once it settles. I believe,” he added quickly, so that it didn’t sound like he was speaking from personal experience.

 

“Settles, hmm? I remember hearing about that. And when does that happen?” Thursday looked at him expectantly. This time Morse let the silence speak for him. “You don’t know, or… Oh.”

 

Morse felt his face go red, and shifted a little further to his side of the car. “I could try and find out more,” he said weakly.

 

“Like you didn’t already read every book in the library,” said Thursday wearily. “Morse.”

 

“Sir?”

 

Now it was Thursday who looked straight ahead, and wouldn’t meet his eye. “I can’t be feeling this way about my bagman.”

 

“No, sir.” It seemed petty to remind him that Morse wasn’t even that, now.

 

“And I imagine you’re none too delighted about it either, an old codger like me?” Thursday tried for a lighter tone.

 

“Sir.”

 

Thursday scrubbed a hand across his face. “There must be some way to stop it, Morse.” Panic flared instantly, overwhelmingly. “See if you can’t find something. Maybe we can talk to a doctor.”

 

“I’ll have a look first, sir. No need for a doctor,” Morse mumbled quietly.

 

“Alright then.” Thursday looked in the wing mirror, and cleared his throat. “There’s a tractor. Might be able to give us directions.”

 

Finding the body entombed at Drover’s was unsettling, of course, and Cronyn’s presence didn’t help, but the discovery of Morse’s picture in there with it made his skin itch with more than the discomfort from the bond. ‘Looks like you’ve got an admirer’ – Jakes’ words rung in his mind. The picture, and the opera; did this person know Morse? Had they merely picked him at random, because they saw him in the paper?

 

Morse tried to pay attention to what Dr Cronyn was saying. “A young man called Miller. Keith Miller. He was some kind of musical child prodigy. Brilliant, by all accounts. But on the morning of his fifteenth birthday, he took an axe from the woodshed and buried it in the back of his mother’s skull.”

 

“What happened to him?” Morse asked, agitated.

 

“Guilty, but insane. Apparently he’d suffered from a broken bond.” Morse tried to stifle his instinctive reaction, and looked quickly away. “It had… severely affected his mind.”

 

“His partner died?” asked Thursday beside him.

 

“No, that was what made it far worse.” Morse turned back just in time to see Thursday’s eyes narrow in puzzlement.

 

“What makes you think he’s connected?”

 

Cronyn told them about Miller’s little list – which would match the list song of the lord high executioner from The Mikado. Morse grew more and more alarmed upon hearing he’d been released, and that he was an Oxford boy. An Oxford boy who pinned up pictures of Morse alongside his victims.

 

Afterwards, Morse waited outside, pacing back and forth. His mind refused to clear; all he could see was that stupid picture of his startled face, captured forever in black and white. Was this a coincidence? An Oxford boy who liked opera, with a broken bond?

 

Bright and Thursday approached. “Morse, you’re off general duties because I’m told this is your area. See you prove yourself useful.”

 

“Alright, Morse?” Thursday asked once Bright left them.

 

“Why’s he got my picture on the wall?”

 

“You’ve just tickled his fancy.” Morse couldn’t stop his fingers twitching in distress; on taking a closer look at him Thursday stepped in and captured one of his hands. The inspector’s body shielded them from view. “I wouldn’t read too much into it. He’s just trying to get us rattled.” He gave Morse’s hand a quick squeeze, and let go.

 

“It’s working,” said Morse ruefully.

 

“Then don’t let it,” Thursday said sternly. “I need you thinking straight.”

 

\----

 

Morse’s deduction of the mnemonic, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, was of cold comfort when they got the call saying a young girl, Debbie Snow, was missing. Morse was sure, absolutely sure, that it was the same killer who had taken her, that he planned to act out Korsakov’s Snegurochka.

 

Her life hung in the balance, and Morse was feeling enough pressure without Jakes’ infernal accusations. “It’s Morse these messages are meant for, sir, we all know that. He’s seen his picture in the paper, one bloody misfit talking to another.”

 

“About your business, Sergeant,” Thursday said curtly, but the damage had been done.

 

“He’s right,” said Morse hoarsely. “If I can’t crack this-“ He waved his hand at the writing on the board.

 

“It’s not all on you, Morse, whatever Jakes says.” Thursday’s voice was calm, soothing. Morse snorted incredulously. “And that rot about him meaning the messages for you – it’s nonsense. The man’s deranged, like Doctor Cronyn said, he would be committing murders either way.”

 

“He had my picture-“

 

“Either way, Morse,” Thursday said more firmly. He looked quickly around the office, and then stood with his shoulder pressing warmly against Morse’s. “And we all know it.”

 

Morse nodded miserably, and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “The snow maiden melts, sir,” he choked out. “At dawn. However he intends to bring that about – by fire, or – we’ve less than 12 hours to find her.”

 

“Then we’d better get a move on.”

 

\-----------

 

Having deciphered the anagram, it had never occurred to Morse that Miller might actually  _be_  at the Bodleian library; he was caught completely off guard. No backup, no plan, not beyond a fumbling, heartpounding search through the stacks that led to him being stabbed and the killer getting away. Morse didn’t remember much between falling on the steps and Strange getting him into a car, aside from pain, a lot of pain, blood on his hands, and his own absolute refusal of an ambulance. How could he find Debbie Snow if he was stuck in hospital?

 

Strange protested, but was easily persuaded, and helped Morse stumble to DeBryn’s section of the Radcliff instead.

 

The doctor didn’t bother with pleasantries, getting Strange to help Morse up onto the table and lift up his shirt to examine the wound. “Right then,” said DeBryn dryly, “I see you’ve come to assess the quality of my needlework.”

 

The cold metal of the examination table was helping Morse focus, but things were still hazy around the edges. DeBryn gave him a glass of something, and he downed it without tasting it.

 

“Do you think you can stay still, Morse, or shall I have Strange hold you? Morse?” It took DeBryn calling his name again for the words to catch up with Morse.

 

“What, no, it’s fine.” He gritted his teeth.

 

“Alright then,” but the pathologist nodded at Strange to stay for a moment. Morse made a low, pained noise at the first stitch, and the burn didn’t ease with subsequent ones. He was grateful for Strange’s hands resting on his shoulders – not restraining but lending support. He wished they were Thursday’s though; wished his DI was there with a fierceness that shamed him.

 

Finally DeBryn dismissed Strange, and started cleaning Morse up. “Not too deep, thankfully, but a clean cut like that will be a bugger to knit. It’s far better gashing yourself on something jagged.”

 

“I’ll bear that in mind the next time I chase a lunatic under the Bodleian,” Morse said sarcastically. DeBryn asked what had led him there, and poured him another drink as he explained the anagram.

 

“Your health, surely.” They toasted, and the burn of the alcohol going down his throat was a pleasant one that dulled the sensation in his side. Morse made to get down from the table, putting a hand on the doctor’s shoulder for support, but DeBryn stopped him with a hand in the centre of his chest.

 

“Doctor?”

 

“We’ve not known each other long, but I consider you an improvement upon the usual police presence, so you’ll understand that I feel the need to keep you around,” DeBryn said. Morse was sure his mouth was gaping wide open.

 

“I didn’t get stabbed on purpose,” he bristled after a moment.

 

“What, oh, not that. I understand that young constables enjoy proving their bravery against sharp objects. I mean whatever it is that’s had you acting so off kilter for the last couple of weeks.” At Morse’s look - after all he hadn’t seen DeBryn for weeks before Mrs Balfour was killed - DeBryn added “Inspector Thursday mentioned it over a week ago. He was worried you were ill, but I don’t think that’s the case. You do seem to have a temperature though,” he said thoughtfully.

 

“It’s really nothing,” Morse said tersely, and pushed the hand off his chest. “I was a bit under the weather, that’s all.”

 

“And now?”

 

“People are being murdered,” Morse exclaimed. “Forgive me if I’m a bit agitated!”

 

“There’s no point in dissembling with me, Morse.” DeBryn’s eyes were knowing, even though surely there was no way he  _could_  have known.

 

“May I leave now?” Morse asked, annoyed. He didn’t like discussing his personal business at the best of times, and this was a bloody hopeless case.

 

DeBryn sighed, and helped him down. “It’s going to be tight and quite tender for a few days, so bed rest. And, my finest Broderie anglaise notwithstanding, don’t exert yourself too much.” This wryly, and Morse reflected that the doctor already knew him better than most.

 

As he left, the doctor said, “Morse. If he’d decided to stab, and not to slash, I’d presently be getting a lot more acquainted with your anatomy than either of us might care for.”

 

The words stuck with him; their killer could have done for Morse easily enough, but he hadn’t. Through accident, or choice?

 

 

\---------

 

Morse couldn’t stay at the station, not with Thursday looking at him like he was going to take him off duty at any minute. The wound in Morse’s side hurt like the devil, but he could still work. And there was a new puzzle, now, buzzing round and round in his head and taunting him to solve it.

 

Going to Cronyn was the last thing Morse wanted to do, but by that point he was desperate. The doctor answered the door quickly, as though he was expecting visitors. He ushered Morse in without asking for any explanation, politely took his coat and then walked through to his office with the clear expectation that Morse would follow. Left with little choice, Morse did.

 

The psychiatrist did at least have an insight on the clue Morse had brought with him, calling it a Modus Bocardo syllogism. Morse read the logical argument aloud, but it wasn’t enough; it didn’t tell them anything about where Debbie Snow might be.

 

“There has to be more to it than that. It has to give us a sporting chance, else where’s the fun in it?” Cronyn gave a sympathetic smile at his frustration.

 

“Well,” Cronyn said, lowering the note, “whatever it means, as an exercise in bamboozling the police, it’s brilliant.”

 

Morse looked up sharply. “I doubt Debbie Snow would see it that way.”

 

“It really matters to you, doesn’t it, finding this girl?” Cronyn sounded curious, fascinated. “I mean, it matters to me, don’t get me wrong, but with you it’s… why did you become a policeman?”

 

Morse let out a quick, aggravated breath and looked away. Clearly in this case psychoanalysis was a habit that extended beyond work. “We’re not here to talk about me - if you’ve nothing else to add-“ he gestured, and then reached for the note. Cronyn was slow to hand it over, scrutinising him.

 

“In my, ah, experience, a policeman’s need to save people, is typically born of a need to save one person. Or it can be a means to take back control, after some kind of trauma or abandonment.” Cronyn looked at him intently. “Which is it for you, Constable Morse?”

 

The query, however mildly meant, stuck a nerve. Morse sucked in a sharp breath and gave Cronyn a dismissive glance. “Good night, doctor.”

 

He’d just reached the doorway when Cronyn said, “I’ve seen your file.” His voice was low enough that Morse had to strain to catch the words, and they halted his steps. “The chief superintendent asked me to take a look.”

 

Reluctantly Morse turned, and faced the doctor. “Why did he do that?”

 

“Did you know there was some question over you being accepted to the police force? They thought you might be too unstable, psychologically speaking.” Morse’s hands formed tight fists; he carefully breathed in and out through his nose, and waited the psychiatrist out. “The Royal Signal Corps made a comment when they were contacted, and your tutor from university. It’s standard practice, to follow up on such things, in a case such as yours.”

 

“A case such as mine?” Morse said with quiet anger.

 

“Yes, where a bond was broken not through mortality but through the intent of another party. She suffered no ill effects, I assume, as the one who initiated it?” Cronyn rose and circled his desk, closing in on Morse. “But you certainly did.”

 

“What’s your point?”

 

“Apparently you’ve been acting erratically recently, and your file suggests to watch for recurring problems due to your past. Superintendent Bright thought perhaps I could help.” His voice was professional, kind, as he edged closer to Morse the way one might to a wounded animal.

 

“Help!” Morse shook his head. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. I’m not suffering anything from the bond breakage.”

 

Cronyn tilted his head to the side, assessing him. “You believe that,” he said, slightly surprised. “But then, your behaviour-“ He reached out a hand, as though to place it on Morse’s arm, but Morse shied away. Cronyn stopped and considered. “If it’s not the broken bond causing this,” he said, with a voice full of gradual revelation, “then is it perhaps a new one?”

 

This was too soon for Morse, right on the heels of his conversation with DeBryn, and incredibly invasive coming from a stranger; one he didn’t even like. “Not at all,” he protested stiffly. “Now, I really must be getting back to the case.”

 

“But such a thing is nearly unheard of. Wait!” Cronyn held up his hand to stop Morse leaving. “About the case. The girl is material in whatever game he’s playing. But, based on the evidence your killer keeps leaving, the real object here is to challenge you. To connect, perhaps, and prove who’s intellect is the greater. So far, it’s…”

 

“You admire him,” Morse said, incredulous.

 

“Respect, perhaps, his ability-” Morse made a noise of disbelief, “-a singularity of purpose”

 

“Which is?”

 

“He lives to kill.” Cronyn looked at him intently, and discomfort crawled over Morse’s skin. “He eats, he sleeps, he kills, that’s all he does; with no more sympathy for his victims than you would feel on taking a paper to a wasp.”

 

“Then why didn’t he kill me?”

 

Cronyn moved closer, until he was only a foot away. “Because it suits him to have you alive.”

 

Morse processed that, putting it together with DeBryn’s comment about stabbing rather than slicing and the disturbing picture of himself that had been walled up at Drover’s rest. “Why me?” he asked, a little shaken.

 

“You must fit some criteria of his. Another list, perhaps.” Cronyn hesitated a moment, then added, “About the other matter, it might help you to talk-“

 

“No,” Morse said immediately, shutting down. “Thank you for your help, but I really must be going.”

 

\-----

 

Finding Debbie Snow in time and alive was an unexpected victory, but it felt hollow to Morse once he realised there was no sign of her being in any danger. This was another game, a trick, soon confirmed by the discovery of Daniel Cronyn’s body. This one truly was a gruesome scene, and Morse gagged as he covered his nose and mouth and tried not to bring up yesterday’s lunch.

 

“I was talking to him, only a few hours ago,” admitted Morse as he continued to dig through the doctor’s drawers after Jakes left.

 

“Oh yes, what about?”

 

“The note. It was him that told me it was a Bocardo Syllogism.”

 

Thursday came over to join him at the desk when Morse held up the vials of morphine. “Interesting,” he hummed, and took one to examine it.

 

“Have you ever read my file?” Morse asked abruptly, a question which had been nagging at him all night.

 

“Your file?” Thursday looked bemused. “Suppose I must have, when we brought you on. Why?”

 

“Has Bright talked you about me at all, recently?” Morse asked in lieu of an answer.

 

Now Thursday was concerned. “Bright? No. Well, yes, about bringing you onto the case. Why?”

 

“I – Cronyn said that Bright had asked him to take a look at me. That I’d been acting – erratically.” The words were no less hard to say then they were to hear, the more so for being true.

 

“Now, Morse,” Thursday began.

 

“I’m not saying – I just wanted to know if he’d talked to you, that’s all.”

 

“No, lad,” Thursday said softly. “Did you talk to Cronyn about it?”

 

Morse didn’t know how to say that it was because of a previous bond that the doctor had been interested in him.  “No, no, I wouldn’t.”

 

Thursday cupped his hand around the nape of Morse’s neck, turning him to face him. Morse was keenly aware of DeBryn still working over by the body, but needed the comfort too much to resist. “If you needed to talk to someone, I would understand,” Thursday said in a low voice.

 

Morse made a helpless noise, and leaned slowly sideways until his body was partially in contact with Thursday’s – like a hug with no arms, he thought hysterically. Thursday stood solid and strong, and bore his weight. His grip tightened a little, on the back of Morse’s neck. “I don’t know that it would help, sir,” Morse murmured miserably.

 

“No?” Thursday asked. “Alright then, alright.”

 

A moment later Morse straightened and pulled away, and Thursday tucked his hands in his pockets with an easy nod, as though nothing had happened. Morse collected the letter advertising the choral society, and the vials, and added them to the cache to go to evidence.

 

“I’ll see you at the autopsy,” DeBryn said as he headed out. The words ‘I’ll see you’ seemed heavy and redolent with some other meaning, but Morse found he couldn’t think beyond the moment.

 

He was so tired.

 

\-----

 

He was barely in the door at the station after talking to Mrs Madison’s niece when a call interrupted his thoughts of an extremely late breakfast.

 

“Autopsy,” Thursday said as he tugged on Morse’s elbow on his way past. “DeBryn got that done fast.

 

Morse might as well have stayed at the station, for all of the attention he managed to pay DeBryn’s report. His lack of sleep was interacting with the bond in an unpleasant way – not that he had been getting much sleep in the last couple of weeks anyway, but apparently  _none_  was too little. His stomach was churning, his skin flushed as though it was thirty degrees in the room, and every second he swayed on his feet with the effort of resisting the thought ‘you need to be closer to Thursday. Being closer will make everything  _better_.’

 

“Morse?” Thursday asked. Embarrassed to be caught out, Morse agreed with Thursday automatically. Then his brain caught up a little. “Together with some ampoules of morphia. Mmhmm.” He yawned into his hand.

 

He managed to pay at least some attention for the remainder of DeBryn’s report, but was immeasurably grateful that it only lasted another couple of minutes.

 

“Perhaps I’ll catch you another time, Morse,” DeBryn said upon seeing him yawn again. Morse nodded a drowsy agreement, and then headed out to start the car up. He felt completely drained. Thursday joined him a minute later, and they set off.

 

“Access wouldn’t be a problem in his line of-“ Thursday’s words faded in and out, a soothing rumble that made Morse feel better. Safe.

 

“Oi!” There was a sudden lurch, and Morse’s head jerked up to find that he’d nearly gone off the road; only Thursday’s quick grab of the steering wheel had saved them. “When’d you last get any sleep? Pull over!”

 

Muzzily, Morse slowed the car to a stop at the side of the road. “Sorry,” he muttered, but his head was already falling back against the car seat, his eyes drooping closed.

 

“Morse? Morse.” There were hands on his face, holding it between them. Loosening his tie. Unbuttoning his top button. “Morse, if you don’t open your eyes in the next five seconds, I’m calling a bloody ambulance.”

 

Morse coughed, and made a sound meant to convey his disinclination to do anything of the sort. “I mean it, Morse,” growled Thursday.

 

He opened his eyes.

 

Thursday was fully twisted in his seat to be as close to Morse as possible. As Morse blinked faintly at him, he ran a thumb repeatedly over Morse’s brow. A thumb which was attached to the hand cupping the side of Morse’s face.

 

A contented sigh escaped Morse before he could get control of himself, but it was enough to propel him upright, for his face to flush with mortification.  “I’m sorry sir,” he said guiltily. “I didn’t think I was that tired.”

 

Thursday eased back over to the other side of the car with a sigh of his own. “I know you didn’t, lad, but you need to take better care of yourself. Not crashing the car with me in it would be nice too. And that didn’t look like just tiredness to me. Out, now, I’ll drive.”

 

Thursday didn’t take them back to the station, or even back to Morse’s flat, as Morse had half expected. When Morse opened his eyes again, not having realised he’d closed them, it was the unassuming front of the Thursdays’ house which greeted him.

 

He trailed Thursday in without argument, but once they were through the front door he started to question his presence there. Thursday removed his own hat and coat, and then reached for Morse’s. His hands felt warm as they slid the coat from Morse’s shoulders. “Right, sit yourself down through there.”

 

“I’m fine, sir.”

 

“Don’t argue,” Thursday said, softly but firmly. “You’re no good to me dead on your feet.”

 

Morse gave a slight nod and hung up his coat, squeezing past Thursday in the hall. Through the door Thursday had indicated was a comfortable looking living room, although the only thing Morse could have recalled about it later was the wide, slightly worn sofa.

 

“I’ll get a brew on,” Thursday said with slightly forced cheer. Or there’s a drop of brandy if you like?” Morse said nothing, caught up in confused thoughts about how simultaneously natural and yet wrong it felt to be there. “Better make it brandy,” Thursday muttered under his breath, and Morse sat.

 

He put his head in his hands, and head Mrs Thursday come down the hall. “What’s this, home in the middle of the afternoon?”

 

“I’ve got Morse in the other room.”

 

“What, the new one? He seemed very nice, I thought. Very polite. Shy though.”

 

Morse settled back into the give of the couch, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. The voices of Thursday and his wife continued to drift through the open door, a comforting back and forth. After a minute Morse’s head rolled to the side inexorably, and his eyes slid shut.

 

There was a feeling to this place that he couldn’t describe; one that set him at ease despite himself. It was quite alarming, really – his lips twitched at the thought. There were more small noises for the kitchen, and then he heard someone come into the room. They stopped just inside the doorway, and stayed there for what seemed a long time.

 

Finally there was a clinking noise on the coffee table and they walked around in front of him. “Morse?”

 

It seemed like far too much effort to open his eyes. He managed a “Hmm?”

 

He felt Thursday sigh more than heard it. “Not that you don’t need the sleep, but what’s this?” The couch shifted under Morse as a weight settled to the right of him. There was a pause, then, “I’m going to lift your shirt up, Morse, check your wound. Is that alright? Morse?”

 

Morse gave a drowsy hum of agreement, and a moment later the left side of his jacket was tucked aside. His shirt was gently eased out of his trousers; even so, his breath hitched as the wound was tugged. “Sorry, lad,” Thursday murmured, and carried on. His undershirt had just been slid up when Morse became aware of another quiet presence in the room.

 

“Win, love, could you fetch the first aid kit? Dettol, and some cotton, and see if we don’t have any bandages.”

 

“I’ve patched up enough of your scrapes to know what’s needed,” she said, and then there was the sound of her footsteps on the stair.

 

Thursday’s hand hovered above Morse’s skin for a moment, and then his fingertips gently traced the edge of DeBryn’s patch-up. Morse murmured something inarticulate. “They called the station,” Thursday said in a low voice. “Said you’d been stabbed. Said you needed to go to hospital. Couldn’t tell me how bad it was. Luckily DeBryn called, after he’d seen you. I was fit to go spare, before that.”

 

“Mmm.” Morse frowned slightly. Thursday started ghosting his fingers along the outlines of Morse’s ribs, above the pull of the bandage.

 

“I thought – I don’t know what I thought. Bloody foolish of you, going off alone like that. And don’t you tell me a girl’s life was at stake – you should have told one of us where you were going; should have taken a PC with you at the very least.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“Well your conversation isn’t up to its usual standards,” Thursday said dryly, and then there was a rustle from the doorway. “Ah, thanks, love.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?” Mrs Thursday asked. Morse stirred unhappily at the idea – bad enough that she was seeing him with his shirt half-off.

 

“That’s alright, I’ll do it; you were right enough about him being shy. Morse, can you hear me, I’m going to take off the tape now.” Morse let out a muted, undignified sound as the tape was peeled off, and was glad that Mrs Thursday had already left. “Looks nasty. You shouldn’t have come back to the station,” Thursday said pointedly, “but then DeBryn told me as much on the phone. This’ll sting, now.”

 

The application of the antiseptic jolted Morse half upright out of his doze, his eyes flicking around the room as if to find who was attacking him. They settled on Thursday, who was concentrating on his side, carefully dabbing around the edges of the cut with a piece of cotton wool. Morse settled back into the cushions with a groan.

 

“There you are,” said Thursday, glancing up at his face. “I get more sense than that from Sam of a morning.”

 

“Sorry,” Morse said sleepily.

 

“Don’t apologise for this. Alright, this looks well enough now, let me get a new dressing on.” His fingers were gentle as they tended to Morse, and Morse’s eyes slid shut again. His shirt was drawn down again, and a minute later a heavy warm weight covered him. It smelled of Thursday, and Morse let out a contented sigh.

 

“You rest for a bit, Morse. Rest now.”

 

\-----

 

Waking up and having tea with the family was one of the most surreal experiences Morse had ever had. His own mother had been a wonderful, loving person, but his time with her seemed very long ago. And while he’d loved his sister, for all that they had little in common, the tension at home with his father and stepmother had been unbearable; he had been glad to leave. Here things seemed easy and bright, and everyone seemed to care about each other. Morse was simultaneously envious, happy for them, and afraid of the future. Thursday kept throwing him looks when he didn’t think Morse could see. Morse had just plucked up the courage to respond to Joan’s teasing, when Dorothea Frazil rang and said she had information.

 

Morse still wasn’t entirely sure he could ever forgive her for that picture in the paper - ‘the singing detective’ - but he contemplated it when she told them she’d heard of a similar case in the past. “Name of Mason Gull, and his mother. There was a general billeted there - took a shine to Mrs Gull, by all accounts, and that’s what led to it.”

 

“He killed his mother with an axe because she’d found a new boyfriend?” Thursday asked.

 

The journalist shook her head. “This was all hushed up, but it was strongly suggested that there was an early stage Cor vinculum between the boy and his mother. And she broke it.”

 

“Between him and his mother?” Morse’s face contorted in disgust.

 

“Broke it?” Thursday asked seconds later.

 

“Or so he said – it could have just been an excuse. There was no word on any subsequent commitment or trial, he just disappeared.

 

“Why, if his name was Gull, would Dr Cronyn know him as Keith Miller?” Morse asked slowly.

 

\------

 

Most of the next day passed in a mad scramble – realising that Daniel Cronyn, or rather Mason Gull, was in fact their killer, and had faked his own death, finding the house of the _real_  Daniel Cronyn and the connection between the victims. Realising Gull’s plan for his finale, for Faye Madison.

 

It wasn’t until Morse’s delayed comprehension that there was someone else’s name who began with the letter F, that he had brought Thursday  _right to him_ , that Morse felt real fear. “It’s not Faye, it’s Fred. Fred Thursday.”

 

Gull had been one step ahead of them this whole time, and Morse had fallen for his tricks again and again. And by now he must have Thursday.

 

Fear made things very, very clear. Currently, a world without Fred Thursday in it wasn’t a world Morse knew how to live in. So Morse would have to do whatever was necessary to stop Gull.

 

It would have taken too long to get all the way back downstairs and try all of the towers in turn, so Morse went straight out onto the roof.

 

He could just make out Thursday’s back, standing on the building to his right.

 

Morse wasn’t that fond of heights at the best of times, but he scrambled across the rooftops, scrabbling for a grip as he edged along sheer drops he wouldn’t normally have contemplated without severe vertigo. He could hear Thursday and Gull talking as he got closer.

 

“-could have killed Morse at the library, why didn’t you?”

 

“Ah, I had other plans for our dear Morse. And I want him to bear witness. How does it feel, to be my crowning achievement?”

 

“If you’re going to keep this up, I wouldn’t mind a draw on my pipe, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“In lieu of a hearty breakfast, by all means.”

 

Morse’s fingers were scraped raw, his toes almost numb from the effort of holding himself close to the wall as he edged along. He was almost there though; Thursday was telling Gull that he would be nothing more than a footnote in history. And finally Morse was clear, and could walk up the sloped roof behind them, quietly, quietly.

 

“In ten years they’ll certify me cured,” Gull was saying confidently, “And I’ll have such a prize to show for it-“

 

“Timing, Morse,” Thursday said, looking at him directly for the first time. “Timing. Watch your footing there, it’s a bit slippy.” Morse was briefly thrown that Thursday had ruined his ambush, but realised from Gull’s smile as he turned that the man had known he was there all along.

 

“Here comes Tosca, right on cue.” Gull’s look was almost friendly. He turned back to Thursday. “Scarpia wanted to possess Tosca, you see, Inspector, to take something that wasn’t his. And when she finally gave in, despairing, to save another’s life, he betrayed her.” Morse took half a step closer, and Mason Gull’s head whipped round. “You see why he has to die?” he asked fiercely.

 

“Because you’re insane?” Morse said.

 

“Don’t play with me.” Gull held the knife a little higher. “I thought you were interesting enough, but then I read your file, and you were  _just like me_. How you went on, functioning as you did, after having your bond broken... It’s a miracle.” Gull licked his lips as he stared at Morse. “Did you feel it, inside, the urge to kill?”

 

“No,” Morse said, revolted, but Gull wasn’t listening.

 

“And not just the same, but special. Rare. Able to form another bond. I’d never thought to find such a thing. And if you could form one with him,” Gull waved the knife contemptuously at Thursday, who looked stunned, “then you could form one with me. I could be whole again. I just need to get rid of the competition, as it were.”

 

Everything else Morse might have felt was buried under shock and horror. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said shakily, “You know it doesn’t.”

 

“I will make it,” Gull hissed, for the first time sounding truly mad rather than showing his usual calm façade.

 

“I’ll stop you,” Morse said with certainty. Or die trying.

 

“Well, then you’d better be quick-“ Gull lunged at Thursday with the knife, and Morse threw himself at them from behind, wrestling Gull to the ground. The murderer caught him a blow to the side with his elbow that made Morse see stars, but he held his grip firm and sat on the bastard. He couldn’t let him get to Thursday.

 

Right on cue, Bright and a squad of officers hurried along the roof towards them. “All under control, Thursday?” he asked as Thursday got Gull up.

 

“More or less, sir, yes.”

 

“Lend a hand, Strange,” Bright ordered, and Gull was passed over.

 

“You think it’s the end?” Gull looked straight at Morse. “This is where it starts.”

 

Thursday moved slightly in front of Morse, shielding him. ‘That’s enough outta you.”

 

“We’re the same, you and me, the same history, the same intelligence.” Gull’s burning eyes were almost hypnotic. “To be like this is to be alone, forever, I see it in you. I can help you. I know what it is that you feel.” They dragged him away, but he stared back at Morse until the last.

 

Everyone else left; Morse and Thursday stood alone on the roof. Thursday waited patiently, while Morse struggled to find words.

 

“There was a girl, Susan, when I was up,” he said finally in a strangled voice. Morse had never spoken of this, after; not to his friends, his family, the psychiatrists and doctors they forced him to see. “We hit it off right away. It was… perfect. We didn’t even realise the first few days, we were spending so much time with each other, so in love that-“ he broke off, and paused to take a few gulping breaths. “We were together for a year. Engaged. I thought-“ he laughed, and it was an ugly sound.

 

“Morse.”

 

“But then there was someone else. Someone she’d known before. Childhood sweethearts. They’d promised themselves to each other, before he’d gone away. And suddenly she resented me over the fact that she felt she had no choice, that she-” Morse swiped a hand across his face, catching a tear that had streaked down his cheek. “She said that if it weren’t for the bond, maybe she could still have loved him, been with him.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I – I can’t…” The feelings had twisted in her until she had despised Morse, despised the bond. All with this other bloke feeding nonsense in her ear about how all she had to do was get rid of it. Over the span of a couple of weeks she’d rejected Morse utterly - his presence, his touch - told him he disgusted her. She’d wanted him dead. She’d hit him, in the end, as he’d stood there in pain and bewilderment; hit him again and again while he hadn’t lifted a hand to defend himself. She hadn’t been right, at the end, he knew that, or she would never have… “I can’t…”

 

He didn’t think he could ever force himself to think about Thursday like that, nor would he ever wish the consequences on him. To suffer from a broken bond would ruin a family just as thoroughly. Thursday might very well come to feel like that about Morse, however; Morse was a threat to his family, to his way of life. It wasn’t such a stretch to imagine Thursday hating him, rejecting him, hurting him. The idea made his stomach cramp though, made him want to double over at a gut-wrenching phantom sensation.

 

The reason most people didn’t know about bond breaking was that it was incredibly rare. People only ever formed bonds with people they had an innate compatibility with, that they felt immediate affection and sexual attraction towards. The bond itself then encouraged harmony and happiness, theoretically – so to have one partner feel violently enough towards the other to cause breakage… It was beyond rare. Usually as the bond kicked in it overwhelmed everything else.

 

If Thursday hadn’t been married, if Morse hadn’t been so horrified by the idea of another bond, if Thursday hadn’t been his DI… Morse had been resisting ever since his first inkling that a bond might have formed, but it would have been so easy to give in. Thursday had been the first person in a long time to look at him and see someone of worth, someone to encourage and care for, in however small a way. In return Morse had felt an intense loyalty towards his DI from the beginning, so his feelings hadn’t exactly been neutral before the bond had kicked in.

 

Morse raised his eyes to Thursday’s. He didn’t really understand what was so wonderful about life bonds, when all they seemed to do was take other people’s choices away and make them unhappy. “I need to think about it,” he said quietly.

 

The problem was that Morse didn’t know if he could go through it again – more years lost to agony and numbness. And what if Gull was right, that a broken bond usually drove people mad, and this time he snapped?

 

As he watched Thursday walk away from him, he thought he might not have any choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being... long.


	5. Breaking Discussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morse is cornered by DeBryn, Thursday, Thursday again, Mrs Thursday... Poor Morse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief mention of past assault by a partner (ie. Morse's girlfriend hit him when they broke the bond)

Morse had no idea, when he saw the note on his desk telling him to pick up some results from Dr DeBryn, that it would in fact be an ambush of a sort. It started out innocently enough; DeBryn was in his office when Morse arrived, and gestured Morse into a chair. He asked after the stab wound, which was still tender and pulled if Morse moved too quickly, but doing fine.

 

Then, “I think we should talk about this life bond you seem to be avoiding all mention of,” the doctor said casually.

 

Morse was, of course, stubborn to a fault when he wanted to be. “I don’t know what-“

 

“Inspector Thursday had a talk with the superintendent, I believe, and then once he’d thought it over he came to talk to me this morning,” DeBryn clarified.

 

Morse stared at the doctor for a moment, taken aback. He’d expected some sort of fallout from the revelations on the rooftop with Gull, but he’d thought it would come directly from Thursday. “He asked you to talk to me?”

 

“Not precisely. But if we _could_ have a frank conversation about this, Morse, it would be immeasurably helpful.”

   

“Helpful to whom?” Morse asked warily, shifting in his chair.

 

“Everyone involved, I imagine,” DeBryn said dryly, “But let’s start with you. You’ve been floundering around like a lost duckling, so I’m assuming you haven’t come up with a solution on your own.” Morse’s ears burned at being described as such, but he shook his head mulishly. “Alright then. I know what Thursday’s told me, but I’d like to hear the situation from you.”

 

Morse abandoned the uncomfortable metal chair – probably meant to discourage medical students from lingering – and moved to examine the eclectic collection of objects on the shelves. There were four human skulls, some with unusual holes in them, a small globe, and carefully categorised fossilized insects. No pictures. And plenty of books, all of them medical in nature. “What do you already know?” Morse inquired finally, studying their titles.

 

“That you have a bond,” DeBryn said patiently. “With Detective Thursday. I’d estimate three or four weeks now. That the two of you are still in the earliest of formative stages, due to a lack of necessary…”

 

“Contact,” Morse supplied after a moment.

 

“Yes, quite. You have both been experiencing distress due to this, although you perhaps more so.”

 

Morse hmmed. DeBryn waited him out, and the silence stretched until Morse gave in. “It wasn’t like this, the first time,” he offered. “It’s… worse. Maybe because it’s the second one. Maybe because it was already half settled after a few weeks, last time.”

 

“Yes, I imagine the difference in… relations would account for a good deal of it. I’ve taken the liberty of doing some reading-“ and here Morse huffed a laugh, because he and DeBryn were very alike in some ways, “-and there’s really very little upon the topic of subsequent bonds, even for those where the other partner has died.”

 

“I know – I looked too. I don’t understand why-“ Morse broke off and stared hard at the books on the shelves, willing himself not to become emotional.  Thoracic Pathology. An Illustrated Guide to Human Physiology. Clinical Diagnosis of… “I don’t understand why it’s happened to me,” he eventually managed to say.

 

“That’s true of many things in a man’s life. Many people would welcome a bond.” DeBryn watched him with a neutral expression.

 

Even knowing that his words were meant to provoke, Morse couldn’t help his impassioned response. “Welcome it! Do you know – do you know what it was like, when she…? You can’t imagine! You can’t! And now, with Thursday – he has a family, a life. He’s my DI!”

 

“Frequently that doesn’t matter, when a Cor vinculum is in question.”

 

Morse slapped his palm down on the shelf. “It matters now,” he said hoarsely. “It matters to me. How could I ever – And he wouldn’t want to!”

 

“Morse,” Debryn said quietly, rising and coming to stand beside him. “This is tearing you apart. Anyone can see it.”

 

Turning his face away from the doctor, Morse covered his eyes with his hand. “What can I do?” he asked hopelessly. “We can’t go on as we are. We can’t be anything else. I can’t break the bond. And if he does… if he does…” Morse wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered.

 

“Alright, Morse, alright,” said DeBryn, and the way he said it reminded Morse so much of Thursday that he let out a wet laugh. “Have you talked to him about this? About how you feel?”

 

“Christ, no.” There was no disguising the tears running down his face now; Morse didn’t even try. “What could he say? There’s nothing for it – it will just have to take its course.”

 

They stood there, Morse trying desperately to hold on to any remaining dignity and the doctor contemplating his next move.

 

“Have you ever considered that he might choose another option?” DeBryn asked in a careful tone.

 

Morse looked at him in consternation. “What? No! Even if he… even putting everything else aside –  _everything_ – he said he couldn’t feel that way about me.”

 

“God, the pair of you,” muttered DeBryn.

 

“And his family! He loves his wife!”

 

“Yes, Morse, he loves his wife,” DeBryn said in a long suffering tone, “but he cares about you too. He wouldn’t want you to go through years of depression and unhappiness again.”

 

Morse’s froze. “You told him?”

 

“When he asked, yes, I told him about the known effects. He’d already heard about it from Bright, already read your file.”

 

“Have you?” Morse asked, heart hammering. “Read my file?”

 

“No. I was rather hoping you would tell me yourself, if you wanted to,” DeBryn said quietly.

 

“I can’t, I mean, I’ve never…” he stuttered. Took a deep breath. “I’m not very good at talking about it.”

 

“Alright,” DeBryn said peaceably. “It certainly doesn’t have to be now.” He gave a small smile and circled back around behind his desk; not ignoring Morse precisely, but giving him space.

 

Slowly, Morse drifted back to the chair he’d been sitting on previously, and gripped the railed metal back between his fingers. “Lord, don’t sit on that thing,” DeBryn said absently, and instead indicated a red leather armchair in the corner behind him. Morse hesitated – somehow this felt like committing himself – but eventually sat as directed.

 

The leather warmed quickly beneath him, and the chair had enough give to let him sprawl a little.  “What do you want to know?” he asked after a few minutes of hearing the pathologist’s pen scratching away.

 

DeBryn didn’t turn, didn’t look at him. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

 

Morse rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, lacing his fingers together in front of him and contemplating them. “You’re very different to the doctors I saw, after.”

 

“Am I?” DeBryn sounded curious, but not pushy.

 

“Yes,” Morse said, a bit more confidently. “They were always asking if I felt better yet; telling me how I should be feeling. Disappointed that I wasn’t… responsive.”

 

DeBryn paused in his writing, and set his pen aside to regard Morse sideways over the tops of his glasses. “I was actually a little surprised that there was no reference to you, in any articles. Anonymity aside, there was nothing from the right time period.”

 

“I wouldn’t talk to them,” Morse confessed softly. “Partially because it was still too... raw. Partially because I couldn’t explain. And every time they asked, it was as though it all came back, and hurt just as badly as it had in the first days… after.”

 

“Is that how it feels now, when I ask?”

 

Morse immediately shook his head. “No. It was still bad, when I came back to Oxford, but not quite as bad. Then it started to get better – I didn’t realise at the time, but it must have been because of Thursday. Proximity.” He gave a sad smile. “And then the bond fully initiated, and now it’s – it still hurts, but it’s not sharp.”

 

“Good. I certainly wouldn’t ask you to talk about it if doing so caused you excessive pain.”

 

“As I said then; very different.”

 

“I’m sorry, Morse.”

 

He waved off the doctor’s concern. “Don’t be. Most of it was my fault – I was so shut down that I didn’t know how to communicate enough with anyone - to tell them what was wrong.” DeBryn watched him a moment more, and then went back to his writing. Morse laid his head against the back of the armchair, and allowed his mind to drift.

 

“I didn’t understand.” The words were out before he’d even realised he’d started speaking. “Not when it happened, not for a while afterwards. I thought she – I mean,  _it hurt_ , but I didn’t know what had… So I tried to go on; going to class every day, wondering why she hadn’t come back. I couldn’t – I couldn’t  _think_! Could barely speak. My tutors must have figured it out before I did, or thought I was very sick – they stopped calling on me for answers, told me not to attend class. Once they said I didn’t have to be there, I stopped leaving my rooms.

 

“It wasn’t until I saw the two of them, days later, together on the quad... Together like that; laughing, smiling. Kissing. I didn’t understand, because you just didn’t – I mean, when you’re in a bond you just don’t... And why would she... And that’s when I knew, when I understood what it was that I was feeling. And then months. Years. I was - you know the rest, I’m sure.”

 

“I’m amazed you got through it,” DeBryn said honestly, crumpling up the piece of paper he had been working on. 

 

“I’m not sure I did,” Morse said dryly.  Then, “Cronyn, I mean Gull, said something. He said that, implied that, that having a broken bond could have made me into a killer.”

 

“Mason Gull was certifiably insane,” the doctor said calmly. “If he did have a bond that was broken, it may have played a role in that, but it was not the entire story.”

 

“But what if – what if when it happens again I’m not strong enough? What if I go mad?” The despair and desperation in his own voice made him bury his head in his hands. “What if they have to lock me up?” he said, muffled.

 

“Morse. Morse!” Morse finally looked up, and found that DeBryn had turned in his chair to face him. “You won’t Morse, it won’t happen. Thursday would never break the bond if there was any chance of it,” he said vehemently. “I sincerely doubt he’ll break it anyway; as if the man could summon up that sort of negative emotion for you! Any fool could see that he’s doted upon you from the moment you entered the station.”

 

Morse shook his head wildly, not taking in the words. “I can’t-“ he choked out.

 

“Alright, alright, I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll speak no more of it for the moment, Morse.” Morse nodded miserably, and took a moment to regain his composure before he stood.

 

“Was there actually a report?” he asked, with a voice too shaken to quite achieve sarcasm.

 

“No Morse, no report.” DeBryn said, and his eyes were kind. “But I strongly suggest you talk to Thursday. Honestly.” As Morse started to shake his head in the negative, the doctor raised his voice. “I genuinely wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would improve the situation. I’m not trying to cause you pain.”

 

Morse hovered for a second, then walked to the door. “Doctor.”

 

“Morse.”

 

\-------

 

The knock at his door came at around eight in the evening a few days later.

 

“Morse.” It was Thursday. Things had been absurdly normal at work, barring the odd touch on hand or shoulder, but Morse had been half expecting this ever since he’d been summoned to the Radcliffe on a fool’s errand. He wordlessly stood aside and let Thursday pass. “DeBryn told me you two talked.”

 

Morse was getting rather tired of people talking about him behind his back. “You talked to Bright about me.” He couldn’t keep the accusation from his voice. “And read my file.”

 

Thursday dropped his hat on Morse’s small table, and took his time looking around as if he’d never been to Morse’s flat before. Morse supposed he might not have been paying much attention to it, last time.

 

“I’ll make no excuses for it,” Thursday said abruptly. “I wondered about it, after you asked me about the file, and then I found about…” About the previous bond, Morse finished in his head. How he wished Gull had kept his bloody mouth shut. Or that Bright hadn’t told the fake psychiatrist in the first place – although maybe his growing obsession with Morse had been the only guaranteed way to catch him. “It seemed like something I should know.”

 

“You could have asked!” Morse huffed.

 

“And you’d have answered, would you?”

 

Breaking the impasse, Thursday proffered a bottle he had brought with him – whisky. It was just as well, as Morse had avoided buying another bottle to replace the last one he’d drunk. He pulled out a couple of glasses from the cupboard and poured. After handing a glass to Thursday, who’d taken a seat at the small table, he returned to lean on the kitchen counter as he sipped his own drink.

 

“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly.

 

Thursday sighed, and downed the whisky. “This whole thing has been a right mess. And I’ve been hurting you without knowing it – some of the things I’ve said.” The last made Morse look at him, startled.

 

“No,” he said, and then, “you couldn’t have known.”

 

“You ought to have told me,” said Thursday gravely.

 

“How would it have made any difference? What does it matter?”

 

Thursday visibly thought his next words over. “Morse. You have to understand I didn’t know much about life bonds. Just what I heard from a couple of army mates, and the occasional rubbish you read in the newspapers. I suppose I’d never thought they were… serious.” Morse let out a hollow laugh, and turned away. “I know, lad, I know. When I started to feel…what I started to feel, well, I thought it might go away. That it could be stopped, somehow, if it wasn’t right.”

 

_If it wasn’t right._

 

“It can. It still can.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like it, lad,” Thursday said gently, “not without-” And Morse couldn’t bear this, couldn’t  _bear_  it. It had taken him long enough to come around to the proper solution – he’d been avoiding it for weeks now – but this was forcing his hand.

 

He whipped around and strode towards Thursday, feeling almost possessed.

 

“I did it on purpose,” he said in a rush, deliberately hardening his voice. “I formed the bond on purpose - because I wanted you.” Thursday looked shocked at the outburst, and rose from his chair. Morse had surprised even himself. “I didn’t even care that you had a family. I knew you would have to leave them. I wanted you to. You’ll forget them; they won’t even matter anymore.” At this Thursday’s face reddened, and Morse knew he had him. “I’ve been playing you, waiting for you to get desperate. I knew you would want me so much that you wouldn’t love them anymore.”

 

“Why you-“ Thursday’s expression was dark and stormy, and Morse felt a flush of victory. He reached out and shoved Thursday hard in the chest. “Morse!”

 

Morse shoved Thursday again, rocking him back onto his heels. “What are you waiting for,” Morse snarled. “Hit me. _Hit me_!”

 

And all the anger drained from Thursday’s face like it had never been there, as stunned comprehension dawned.

 

“Oh,  _Morse_ ,” he said, and reached out. Morse flinched, stumbling backwards,  _away_ , but Thursday followed. Morse kept going until he hit the wall, and then he was trapped – trembling like a new-born foal. Thursday didn’t give him time to think, or to shy away again; he just came in close and wrapped his arms around Morse. “Is that what she did to you?” he whispered harshly into Morse’s ear. “Is that what she did?”

 

“Oh God,” Morse croaked miserably, breath hitching with the desperate need to  _not do this_.

 

“Did she hurt you, Morse?” Thursday’s lips were brushing against the top of his ear. “ _What did she do_?”

 

The first sob took him by surprise, a muted gulp of sound. He tried frantically to swallow the subsequent ones, but they pushed their way out of him, his throat and chest burning. He lowered his head and tried to bury his face against Thursday’s shoulder; tried to hide.

 

Thursday’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head, threading broad fingers through Morse’s hair. He tugged until Morse’s face was tucked into the crook of his neck, until his tears wet Thursday’s collar, and then began gently smoothing his fingers over the back of Morse’s head and neck.

 

He didn’t say anything else, not for a long time, and Morse was pathetically grateful.

 

Eventually, Morse’s breathing calmed, and the tears slowed. His hand, which had hitherto been fisted in the front of Thursday’s jacket, came up to scrub at his eyes. Thursday didn’t let go, didn’t stop the gentle sweeps of his hand atop Morse’s head, and so Morse stayed still a little longer, guiltily allowing himself to be held. “Sorry,” he whispered finally, and Thursday’s arm tightened around him for a moment.

 

“So you should be, trying to rile me up like that,” Thursday said gruffly, deliberately misunderstanding his apology. He shifted a little, and then there was the gentle pressure of his lips against Morse’s hair. It was sweet agony – a feeling of wild contentment blooming in his stomach followed by the keen ache of knowing he shouldn’t be receiving this affection, that it didn’t belong to him.  

 

Morse didn’t know how many hours or days of this bond he had left, but he knew that it would end soon. There was no other way.

 

“Sir,” he murmured into the side of Thursday’s neck. “You have to. Your family.”

 

“You let me worry about that,” Thursday said firmly. “You’ve been doing enough worrying for ten.”

 

“But if you would just-“

 

“Just what, Morse? What exactly would I have to do?” Morse lifted his head -  _Thursday was so close_  - eyelashes sticky with residual tears when he blinked.

 

“I don’t-“ Morse stopped to take a deep breath, No, he’d never read about this, but some of the words the doctors had said afterwards had penetrated. He knew. He cleared his throat, and it felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. “I’m not sure, technically speaking, but… you’d have to hate me,” he admitted finally. “Truly hate me, and wish me harm. Hate the bond; reject it.  And…”

 

“And what, Morse?”

 

Morse shrugged, self-consciously ducking his head. “You could beat me bloody; that would probably work.” His morbid humour missed its mark as Thursday tensed against him.

 

“How could you think I’d do that, Morse?” His voice was somewhere between sad and disgusted.

 

“You would,” Morse said clearly, meeting Thursday’s eyes again. “To protect your family, you would!”

 

“Not against someone who’s done nothing to deserve it, Morse. Not against you.”

 

Morse set his mouth stubbornly. “There are two boats sinking - one has your family in it, the other a stranger. Which do you choose to save?”

 

“You’re not a stranger!” Thursday said angrily. “Stop talking about yourself as though you’re worthless, as though I don’t care.”

 

Morse’s heart gave a traitorous lurch. Of course Thursday cared though, he was a caring man – he cared about all the men that he served with. And he’d always been kind to Morse. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quietly. “I just meant-“

 

“Well, what  _did_ you mean?” Thursday interrupted, breathing unevenly.

 

It was enough to spur Morse on, to give him the courage to look Thursday in the eye and coldly say, “I just meant there has to be a choice. And we both know what you’re going to choose; what the only possible choice is!” He pulled away then, pulled away from the lie of Thursday’s warm embrace, and walked out of the door of his flat.

 

\--------

 

“You’re coming for dinner tonight,” Thursday informed him briskly at half four the next day. It was Friday, and Morse’s plans for the evening had previously consisted of possibly getting dragged to the pub for a bit by Strange, and then his records and a better acquaintance with the bottle of whisky Thursday had left behind. Not particularly ambitious plans, but superior in every way to the idea of an incredibly awkward visit to the Thursday household.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” he said politely. “Prior engagement.”

 

“Well unengage it. You can drive me home. Five thirty, sharp.”

 

At five fifteen, Morse passed the Jaguar keys off to Jakes, and told him he had extra work so couldn’t take Thursday. Jakes looked surprised. “But he said-“

 

“Give him my apologies,” Morse said with a tight smile.  “But I-“

 

“Apologies for what?” Thursday asked roughly from behind him. He reached out and snatched the keys from Jakes’ still outstretched hand. “Come on, Morse.”

 

“But, sir, I don’t think-“

 

“In the car, Constable Morse!” His voice was like a whip cracking, and Morse obeyed without further protest. Thursday took the driver’s seat.

 

They drove in tense, uncomfortable silence until they reached the right street, and then Thursday pulled over at the side of the road before they reached the house.  

 

“I’ve told Win,” Thursday said, and it was so unexpected that Morse’s jaw literally dropped. ”I told her days ago, right after Gull.”

 

“Why? How could you?”

  

“You don’t think she has as much of a right to know, to make this decision?” Thursday sounded irked.

 

“I don’t think she should have had to.  We just need to - to fix it, and everything can go back to the way it was,” Morse said coolly.

 

“Not everything.”

 

No, not everything. Morse had written his letter of resignation that morning; he would be unable to work at all for several months, he estimated. He would have to go and stay with his family, probably, which would be horrific – especially after their reaction the last time. Still, his sister would be kind enough - or he could ask around his old university friends, see if anyone had an out of the way place he could retreat to for a while.

 

He’d have to leave Oxford. There was no way he could deal with living in a place he’d broken a bond twice over.

 

“It’ll be alright, sir,” he lied. “Maybe in a year or two, if you wouldn’t mind writing me a recommendation…” Although he wasn’t sure he would carry on in the police, now. Maybe that too would be too much of a reminder.

 

“A year or two!  _Christ,_  Morse, if you could hear yourself.” Thursday ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “Enough. Get out of the car. There’s no point us discussing this any further here.”

 

The Thursday house was just as bright and warm as Morse remembered it – it seemed to almost glow. This time the brightness was too bright, though, and the warmth almost scalding - Morse felt his skin flush with heat as he removed his coat - as though the house itself was rejecting his presence.

 

“Close the door, Fred, there’s a dear,” said Mrs Thursday as she bustled down the hallway towards them. “You’re letting all the cold air in. Hello, Morse, love,” she said, and bussed him on the cheek. He couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d pulled out a knife and stabbed him on top of the wound made by Gull; he stood stock still in the middle of the hall until Thursday tugged his coat out of his arms and hung it on the peg.

 

“Come on through then, Morse.”

 

On autopilot, Morse’s feet carried him through to the dining room, where Sam and Joan were sat laughing.  “Dad,” Sam started, “tell her that she’s got to-“

 

“Go on and help your mother, Sam.” The boy got up to help with apparent good will, and Joan took the cue of Thursday eyeing the table to start laying it. “You sit there, Morse, and I’ll grab us a drink.”

 

Morse wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t to be enveloped into the family so seamlessly and immediately. Joan started telling him about her day, and complaining playfully about her brother; Sam set to with quick rejoinders as he started carrying food through. Mrs Thursday, whom Morse had been dreading having to speak to, gave him the occasional smile and tried to get him to talk once or twice; he could never manage more than a stuttered reply.

 

Thursday was relaxed and at ease here. It was like seeing him wearing a different outfit than the one he wore at work every day. Being a detective inspector suited him, no doubt about it; Morse couldn’t imagine him any other way, but being a husband and father at home with his family suited him too, down to the ground. Morse smiled a little to see it. He was glad, he supposed, that this time he really understood the reason why there couldn’t be a bond. He thought that maybe it would help, after.

 

“Alright, alright,” Thursday said when Sam began to fidget in his seat. “Off you go then. He’s going out with friends,” he said to Morse as an aside. “Mind you clear the table, first. And you, Joan,” for she was rising too.

 

“But I’ve got to get ready,” she objected, and Thursday snorted. Both of the children helped, in the end; Morse wasn’t sure if he should offer so stayed silent, not wanting to draw attention.

 

Once Sam had banged out of the front door and Joan run upstairs, Morse rose and stood behind his chair. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mrs Thursday,” he said formally. “Thank you for inviting me, sir.”

 

“Oh, don’t think you’re getting away that easily, lad. Let’s go through to the other room. Win-“

 

“I’ll put a brew on,” she said in a long-suffering tone. “I swear, if he doesn’t have at least six cups a day,” she added to Morse, who couldn’t help but smile. Thursday’s habits were well known at the station. “Go on then.” She nodded at the door.

 

In the living room, Morse took the armchair next to the television, leaving the sofa for Thursday and his wife. Thursday sunk into it with a pleased groan, and fished out his pipe. There was something calming about watching the familiar motions of Thursday carefully packing the bowl, and then taking a few tentative draws as he lit it. The smell of tobacco gradually permeated the room.

 

Mrs Thursday came in with a tray, and Morse became aware that he’d been sitting quietly watching Thursday for almost ten minutes. He hadn’t noticed the time pass at all. It had been… pleasant. “Milk and sugar, love?”

 

He cleared his throat. “Just milk, please.” As she handed him a cup, there were the sound of steps on the stairs again. “Bye,” called Joan as she left.

 

“That was quick,” muttered Thursday. “Must be keen on this one.”

 

“If she was keen she would have taken longer,” corrected Mrs Thursday, and they shared a smile. Morse looked away and took a sip of his tea; it scalded his tongue.

 

“Now then,” Thursday said briskly. “We’ve all got a problem, and it seemed to me it would be best if we just talked it through.” Morse focused hard on balancing his cup and saucer, unable to look at them.

 

“I’ve got an old school friend,” Mrs Thursday said into the silence. “Alice. She met her husband when she was twenty three I think. They’ve been so happy together.” It wasn’t the accusation or hurt he’d expected to have thrown at him. Gathering that some response was expected, Morse nodded. “She says it’s wonderful, being bonded with him. Says it brings them close, makes them happy.” This time Morse couldn’t bring himself to nod.

 

“Now, love,” Thursday started.

 

“I know you’ve had a bad experience before,” she pushed on, and Morse’s eyes darted up to meet hers at that, “But it’s not always like that. It doesn’t have to be like that. It can be good – a good thing.”

 

“ _Win_ -“

 

“What?” Morse floundered, wide-eyed; it almost sounded like she was trying to convince him to  _keep_ the bond.

 

“Have you thought about it, giving it a try?” she asked, and he was so lost in this conversation he couldn’t have answered her if he tried.

 

“I think you’ve shocked him a bit, Win, love.” Thursday said, taking her hand. “Morse here has been operating under the assumption that we’d be breaking the bond.”

 

“Yes, I know that,” she said patiently. “But,” she turned to Morse, “you don’t  _want_ that, do you?”

 

“I don’t – I… I don’t-” Hastily Morse stood, his emotions such a tangled jumble that it seemed there was no way that he could stay in the room with them.

 

“We’ve not known each other long, but it seems to me you’ve got a good heart,” she added.

 

Perhaps being stabbed when he walked through the door would have been easier than this, after all.

 

“Why don’t you give us a minute, Win, I don’t think the lad knows what to make of this.” Mrs Thursday looked at them both, then gave Thursday a kiss on the cheek and left the room, closing the door behind her. “Morse,”

 

“Sir,” he said faintly.

 

“’Sir’ feels a bit inappropriate for this conversation, Morse.”

 

Morse stared at him, uncomprehending. “Sir.”

 

“Come here.” Thursday indicated the sofa next to him. When Morse made no move, “Come on, sit down, before you fall over.” Morse sat, but in the armchair behind him; it didn’t feel safe, going over and sitting next to Thursday. Mrs Thursday would come back in a minute, and want her seat back. “Hmm, well enough. At least you don’t look like you’re going to sprint out of the house any minute now.”

 

“Sir,” Morse said, so quietly it was almost to himself. “I don’t think I understand.”

 

“Well, I can see that. And I didn’t mean for Win to come after you like that - I’d meant to say something in the car but you were being so…”

 

Morse suddenly found his voice properly, and it was filled with unexpected outrage. “She wants you to leave? You can’t, you have to stay here; they need you!”

 

Thursday stared at him for a moment. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” he said finally. “Morse, get your arse over here before I tan it.” His tone was serious, and Morse pushed himself halfway up on the armrests. He paused there, rethinking. “Morse!”

 

Morse went.

 

Once he’d sat down, pressed as far into the corner as he could possibly be, Thursday turned sideways and caught his elbow. “Don’t be obtuse, lad,” he muttered, and pulled Morse over until their sides were touching. Morse took deep, careful breaths and tried not to relax into the touch.

 

“Sir, I-“

 

“Stop bloody calling me sir!” Thursday growled. “You’re not making this any easier, Morse.”

 

“Sorry, si-“ Morse had to scramble to find a suitable alternative; he certainly couldn’t call the man  _Fred_. “Mr Thursday.”

 

Thankfully this time Thursday regarded him with fondness rather than irritation. “I don’t know why I bother,” he murmured. His face became serious again. “As I understand it, to break the bond I would have to genuinely want to hurt you, and accept that you would suffer terribly for at least two or three years because of it; something you’ve already had to go through once before.” He seemed to take Morse’s silence as acquiescence. “That isn’t an option for me.” His tone was very final. “And I’m assuming since you’ve not mentioned it, that you’re not planning to break the bond on your end?”

 

At this Morse jerked his head up, horrified. “No, sir, I could never,” he breathed.

 

For a moment Thursday’s face twitched as he clearly supressed the urge to say something, then he cleared his throat and carried on. “So then. We’re not breaking it. End of discussion.”

 

Morse frowned, and started to object, “But there’s no other-“

 

“Do be quiet for a minute, Morse,” Thursday said wearily. “Drink your tea.” Morse glanced across the room at his cup sitting next to the armchair. “Nevermind, drink mine.” A cooling cup was pressed into his hand. Morse took a sip, and wrinkled his nose at the taste. Bonds clearly didn’t take into account compatibility when it came to how one took one’s tea.

 

“Mrs Thursday and I are happily married.” Thursday said after a minute. Morse nodded. “I love my wife, but we’ve been married for a long time. Things change, over time, Morse.” He looked intently at Morse, and Morse felt there was a message here that he was clearly not receiving. “And I’m not saying it’s fair to you, mind, you deserve someone younger, someone who could give you everything.” Morse nodded uncertainly, having no idea what Thursday was talking about. “Stop looking so confused!”

 

Morse drew away slightly, stung despite himself. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” he admitted. To him it sounded as though Thursday was still talking about breaking the bond, despite his words of a minute ago.

 

“I know you don’t. Christ, I hardly know myself.” Thursday rubbed his hands on the knees of his trousers. “Morse?”

 

“Sir. Thursday,” he corrected quickly. Thursday gave him a sardonic look, and Morse acknowledged it with a rueful half-grimace.

 

“Morse. Win and I, we love each other, but we don’t really have a… physical relationship anymore,” Thursday said delicately.

 

Morse stopped breathing. There was no way that Thursday had just told him what he thought he had.

 

“And while I still love her very much - of course I do, she’s my wife – and I would never leave her and the children… Well.” He reached over, and took one of Morse’s limp hands in his own. “I care about you too.”

 

Morse stared down at the hand holding his as though it was as fantastic and inconceivable as a talking dog. “But-“

 

“I’m not talking about particulars with you now, I’m just asking if you care about me as well. If it’s worth a try. Yes or no?”

 

“Sir, I-“

 

“Yes, or no,” Thursday repeated firmly.

 

“You want to – with me?”

 

“Morse,” Thursday said in a warning tone.

 

Morse turned to look at Thursday; a face now as familiar to him as his own. He felt like every line of it was burned on his brain. The thought of losing it, losing him, was torturous, but Morse had seen no other option with the way things had been going. And now Thursday was suggesting that Morse, what, become his _mistress_?

 

And implying that Mrs Thursday would accept it?

 

He drew in a shuddering breath, and tried to think clearly. Thursday had said he wouldn’t break the bond. Morse definitely wouldn't break the bond. The current state of affairs was driving them both crazy, and undoubtedly already affecting Thursday’s relationship with his family. The two possibilities on the table before Morse were to continuing trying to convince Thursday to break the bond, which eventuality Morse feared terribly, or to try and work with the bond while Thursday remained with his family.

 

Thursday was right, it was the better option, at least for Morse. It certainly wasn’t fair to Thursday or his wife, though.

 

“But Mrs Thursday,” he said uncertainly. “She’d –“

 

“Right, enough,” growled Thursday, and kissed him. The sensations registered in reverse for Morse – there was the dry, warm pressure of Thursday’s lips over his, the rough warmth of his hands cupping Morse’s face and neck, holding him steady, and then the slow understanding that Thursday had somehow moved from over there to right here.

 

His eyes slipped closed, and he kissed back with delayed eagerness, breath hitching as Thursday’s tongue ran along the seam of his lips. Thursday took advantage of them parting and deepened the kiss, and Morse let out a small noise of approval. Very different to being with a girl, he thought somewhere in the recesses of his mind, where he always felt obligated to lead. Here Thursday was the one to press him back against the arm of the couch, to swallow all the of the sounds which Morse was making. His own hands had moved to touch without conscious direction – one on Thursday’s shoulder and the other tucked under his jacket, pressing against the warmth of his side.

 

Thursday slowed their kisses, took the time to brush his lips lightly over Morse’s again and again, until Morse shivered at the sensation and lunged up pursuing him. This time it was he that pulled Thursday down against him, he who licked into Thursday’s mouth and stoked the passion between them.

 

Thursday broke away, breathing hard. “Morse,” he murmured, sounding wrecked, and Morse took in the sight of him in a daze; tie askew, reddened lips, shirt ruffled. Morse’s own jacket was most of the way off his shoulders, and he would have shrugged it off entirely had it not suddenly penetrated the fog of lust surrounding his brain that he was  _on the Thursday’s sofa_. In the very spot that Mrs Thursday had been sitting in, some twenty minutes before.

 

“Oh  _God_ ,” Morse said, and his voice sounded no better than Thursday’s. “What are we doing? We  _can’t_.” He started to struggle against Thursday’s hold, to pull away.

 

“Morse. Morse, look at me.” Gentle hands steered his face until he had no choice, although he stubbornly looked away until the last moment. “You’ve done nothing wrong. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

 

“It’s the bond making you think that,” Morse said unhappily. “You’d never have wanted me, otherwise. Mrs Thursday would never have had to… You can’t be telling me that she’s happy with her husband…” Morse found he couldn’t say the words ‘kissing another man.’

 

“It’s not how we thought it would go, lad, that’s for sure.” Thursday let go of Morse’s face, and he slid an arm around him instead, pulling him sideways against Thursday’s shoulder. Morse thought about resisting further, but Thursday seemed determined to talk about it; at least this way Morse could rest his head on Thursday’s shoulder and not have to look at him. “But it’s what is. How should we all deal with it – kick and scream and make everybody unhappy?” Morse privately thought that that was exactly what would happen with most couples.

 

“But you’d be being unfaithful to her,” Morse whispered, ashamed to so much as voice the idea. Thursday’s grip around him tightened.

 

“You’ve just as much of a claim to me now, lad, more by some people’s reckoning.” Thursday turned his head so that his chin rubbed against Morse’s hair. “Do you feel that I’m being unfaithful to you, when I’m with her?” He asked, voice measured and careful.

 

“She’s your wife!”

 

“That’s not what I asked, Morse.”

 

It was difficult to be honest with Thursday about any of this, not when his feelings were so capable of hurting other people. Still, DeBryn’s advice came back to him, and Morse cleared his throat and tried. “Not unfaithful, sir. It makes me happy, that you have someone who loves you so much, that you love too. And it… it hurts, because I want it too, but it’s not – I mean, I know I can’t…”

 

“That’s how she says she feels – the first part at least” Morse gave a dubious hum. “I’d not lie to you, Morse, and I don’t believe she was lying to me. I’ve tried to put myself in her place, to imagine how I’d feel if she went off with another man – even if she still loved me.” He went quiet, and Morse made an inquiring noise. “Oh, I didn’t get on at all. I’d be jealous as heck. Proof that she’s a better man than me, I suppose.”

 

“It’ll hurt her though,” Morse said.

 

“It’s already hurting her, Morse. It’s already hurting you.”

 

Morse opened his mouth to reply – he didn’t know with what – when there was a slight knock at the door and it opened a moment later. The wrongness of Mrs Thursday having to knock to enter her own living room was far superseded by the fact that she was catching him cuddling against her husband, and Morse bolted upright in the seat.

 

“I thought I’d see if you two wanted anything else,” she asked from the doorway.

 

“Come and sit down, love. I’ve been trying to settle Morse, but he keeps panicking every other minute. Actually, I think perhaps it’s you that he needs to talk to. Why don’t you sit together for a bit?”

 

Mrs Thursday smiled at him. “You can do the rest of the washing up,” she said, and there was a hint of mischief in her voice which made Morse blink in surprise.

 

“Oh, thank you,” Thursday said dryly.

 

They exchanged places smoothly; Thursday levering himself out of the seat with a hand on Morse’s thigh, pressing his wife’s hand as he left.

 

She sat and regarded Morse calmly, a pleasant expression on her face.

 

“How can you be alright with this?” Morse demanded quietly after a minute. “With your husband – with him being in a bond with someone else?”

 

Morse must have looked terrible, half wild, because she laid a hand on his cheek and shushed him. It felt like something his own mother might have done, which was bizarre under the circumstances. “I suppose I’m not,” she said, and they were the first words anyone had spoken all evening that seemed to make sense.

 

He breathed out; the lights suddenly seemed less bright and the room less hot. “No,” he agreed.

 

“No.” Her eyes were sad and beautiful as she looked at him, and, aside from her husband, there wasn’t a creature on the earth he would have wished harm upon less. He reached out, shyly, and took her hand. “We’re an old married couple - maybe that’s more like a friendship than it used to be, but I’d never have been alright with him straying.”

 

Morse nodded. “I know. I’m sorry he told you – I wish we’d been able to sort it so you would never have had to know.”

 

“Morse, love, when Fred told me, I went to my doctor and asked about it. Said it was for a friend.” She gave him a small smile. “They had a little information booklet and everything – what to do when a bond forms. Nothing about breaking one. So I asked.” Morse’s grip tightened on her hand.

 

“What did they say?” he asked, dry mouthed.

 

“That it would only happen under truly horrible circumstances, with one person hurting the other beyond bearing. That the person hurt like that would be crippled, inside, probably for the rest of their life.”

 

“It’s why I wouldn’t do it to Inspector Thursday,” Morse said after a minute. “There’d be no point breaking it just to put him through that – he wouldn’t be… himself, not for a long time. He wouldn’t be your husband.”

 

Mrs Thursday brought her free hand to cover their clasped ones. “I know that. So does Fred. He said you tried to get him to break it, yesterday.” She looked at him inquiringly, and he nodded. “That must have taken a lot of courage.”

 

“Courage?” Morse laughed hoarsely. “I should have done it weeks ago, as soon as I suspected. Instead I buried my head in the sand, and hoped we could get by with never acknowledging it.” He dropped his eyes miserably. “I never wanted to take him from you, not at all.”

 

She gathered him up into her arms then, and he went without a fight. “I never thought you did, love, I never thought you did.” Carefully he put his arms around her in return, the thought striking him that she probably needed comfort too. “Besides,” she said in a lighter tone as he started to draw back again, “I knew you must be a lovely lad, or you’d not have bonded to my Fred.” He couldn’t quite manage a smile. “Such a serious one, though, aren’t you? You mustn’t let Sam and Joan walk all over you.”

 

And the mention of the children was like a bucket of ice water down his back; suddenly he was in the real world again. “I don’t understand,” he said, sticking with honesty, “what it is that you and Inspector Thursday want from me.”

 

She eyed him for a moment. “I took you by surprise, earlier. I was trying to tell you that it would be alright. I was right, wasn’t I; you don’t want to break the bond.” He fidgeted slightly, but shook his head.

 

“I’m still not sure I see another way,” he replied honestly. Because what if Mrs Thursday had come in two minutes earlier and found them kissing? Their clothes had still been untidy when she walked in, she must know something had happened. How could they live like that?

 

“But you don’t want to?”

 

“No,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want to. But I want for him to be happy – with you – more than I don’t want to.”

 

Her eyes filled with tears, and her hand flew to her mouth. Morse felt alarmed – he never knew how to deal with crying women. “Oh, love,” she said finally, voice straining with emotion. “That’s exactly what makes me think it will work out. I can accept that my Fred’s heart is big enough for two, and I’m glad, _glad_ ,” she said fiercely, “that he’ll have someone who loves him so much.”

 

Morse couldn’t think of a proper response to that, but felt himself flush to the tips of his ears.

 

The noise of water running in the kitchen stopped, and after a moment Thursday appeared in the open doorway wiping his hands with a dishcloth. “You alright in here?” he asked, and Morse wondered with sudden mortification how much he might have heard.

 

“Quite alright, Fred,” Mrs Thursday answered, saving Morse from having to. “Although I suspect this one’s had enough of us for the evening.” Thursday checked him over, and Morse nodded agreement.

 

“I could do with some time to think, sir,” he said.

 

Mrs Thursday wrapped him up an extra slice of cake to take home with him, and they said their goodbyes in the hallway. To Morse’s embarrassment and surprise, Thursday embraced him, holding him close for a minute. Morse couldn’t look at Mrs Thursday, after.

 

“Isn’t he adorable,” she whispered to her husband, though, and Thursday laughed.

 

“Careful, love, if you make the lad blush any harder he’ll turn into a beetroot.”

 

Morse looked back at them, as he left the house, standing with their arms around each other and outlined in a pool of light. He wasn’t still sure there was any place for him there, but hope for it was slowly worming its way into his heart.


	6. Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The effects of the bond start to change with Morse and Thursday's changing relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, really, I was going to get everything in this chapter and finish it. But then it got so long! So long. So I'm calling it here, and the next chapter will actually be the last one, promise.
> 
> ps. Sleepy, incoherent Morse is my favourite thing.

It was astounding how _good_ Morse felt when he woke up the next morning. A thousand aches and pains had vanished, his stomach felt normal - he’d even lost the fever. He hadn’t realised how bad it had been until everything lifted. Everything except the buzzing on his skin, that was still there, but it seemed minor in comparison.

 

In exchange, however, the distractedness had worsened. It took him twenty minutes to get out of bed, because his mind kept drifting off pleasantly every time he thought about getting up. He daydreamed as he got dressed, as he ate breakfast and brushed his teeth, as he sat on the bus – literally losing time as he stared out into nothing.

 

He got all the way into work before he realised it was a Saturday.

 

Since there weren’t any current urgent cases, there was no need for him to be there, and he’d known that when he left the night before. He should have known it this morning too, but it had slipped his mind. Perhaps it was just as well – he hadn’t even realised it but he would have been late already due to his time wasting. This way there was no one to scold him for it.

 

After staring at the front of the police station for a while, he snapped out of his trance when a car blared its horn nearby. He turned and started to walk aimlessly. At some point he hit the river, and the sight of the water was pleasant and calming. There was a bench nearby – In memory of Harold and Laura Carter – and Morse sat for a while watching ducks and twigs drift downstream.

 

The sun came out, hid behind clouds again, came out, grew reddish, and gradually faded.

 

There was a loud splash, and the shriek of children playing nearby. Morse jolted in surprise, and the world snapped back into focus again.  

 

He could barely make out the river now – it was much darker. How had it got so much darker? More importantly, he was absolutely freezing; his hands and feet felt like ice, and his face burned with cold fire. For all that it hadn’t been a particularly cold winter’s day, he’d still been sat outside on a bench for – he squinted at his watch in the dimming light – almost seven hours.

 

It beggared belief. He thought he’d only been there for a few minutes – half an hour maybe. Also, he urgently needed to find a tree to step behind.

 

Afterwards he refastened his trousers with numb, shaking fingers, and started back towards the road. It would take maybe half an hour to retrace his steps to the station, but he had no reason to be there. He didn’t want to go home though, didn’t want to face his tired, dark little room. When he dug deep into the pockets of coat – and thank God he’d been wearing his coat at least – in an attempt to warm his hands, his fingers closed around a scrap of paper.

 

He didn’t know what he’d found at first; upon drawing it out he saw a black spider scrawl of numbers and the name DeBryn.

 

DeBryn.

 

The red leather chair in the pathologist’s office was a good memory, despite some of the words he’d spoken there. The thought of DeBryn patching up his side with care, that was a good memory too. Rather than try and figure out where the nearest bus stop was, since he didn’t think he had enough money on him for a cab, Morse wove his way to the red pay phone he could see on the corner.

 

“Max,” answered the voice on the phone, after it had rung several times.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve-” Morse’s voice died off, as he remembered that Max was DeBryn’s first name. Not a wrong number. “It’s Morse.”

 

“Morse? How are you? If this is about a case, I’m not on call and I’ve got a very fine bottle of brandy I was about to open which will fight you for my company.”

 

“I-“ Morse felt suddenly tongue-tied. “Sorry, have you got company? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

“No, no company.” DeBryn’s voice lost its levity and became serious. “Is everything alright? Where are you?”

 

It was a good question. “I’m not sure,” he confessed, looking for a street sign. “Somewhere near the river.”

 

“The river?” DeBryn sounded baffled. “Morse, are you alright? Which river?”

 

“I’m not sure of that either. No, wait.” He cast his mind back to remember what it had looked like; how wide. “Must be the Thames. I don’t really remember getting here.”

 

There was a silence on the other end, and Morse began to wonder if DeBryn had hung up. Then he said, “Find the street name, Morse, I’ll come and pick you up.”

 

“Alright,” Morse said agreeably, “Hold on.” He left the receiver hanging, and wandered down the road a bit – he could see the nearest junction from the phone-box, it wasn’t far. “Meadow Lane and Fairacres. Meadow Lane and Fairacres.” He recited the names to himself all the way back to the phone box.

 

When he picked up the receiver, the line was dead. “Hello?” he said. It didn’t seem like DeBryn to hang up on him. “Hello?” he asked again. Still nothing.

 

Slightly confused, he hung the receiver back up, and looked around into the growing darkness outside the booth. He could just head home. Even if he walked, it would only take about an hour. He knew which side of the river he must be on, so if he followed it north he’d reach the city centre soon enough.

 

He looked at the phone again, and dug the slip of paper out of his pocket. His lips moved as he mouthed the numbers. Perhaps he should try again?

 

He lifted the receiver, and a brief burst of clarity as he looked at the display informed him that the money must have run out while he was checking the street name. DeBryn hadn’t hung up on him, after all. Morse slipped a twenty pence coin into the slot, and dialled again.

 

“Morse?” DeBryn picked up immediately this time, and he sounded almost frantic.

 

“Doctor? Is everything alright?” Morse asked, concerned.

 

“Where are you, Morse?”

 

“Oh, I’m at…” And of course, in the confusion over the phone, he’d forgotten what the street signs had said. “Madison Lane? Maiden Lane? And Faircresent Road. Fairbank.  _Meadow Lane_!” he remembered happily.

 

“Meadow lane, next to the Thames, and Fair-something Road. Stay on the phone, Morse, I’m just checking the map.”

 

“Alright.” He started to feel awkward after a moment of silence. “Have you had a nice day?” It was slightly difficult to talk, Morse noticed, because his teeth were starting to chatter.

 

“Have  _I_ had a nice – never mind. Stay where you are Morse, I’m coming to get you. Stay in the phone box, do you hear me.”

 

“Yes,” Morse agreed. He wasn’t quite sure what DeBryn was worked up about, but he was glad that the doctor was willing to come and give him a lift.

 

This time he heard DeBryn hang up, and, after saying hello into the receiver a couple of times just in case, Morse hooked it back onto the handset.

 

He stood in the box for a while, hands tucked up under his armpits for warmth. His breath was fogging in front of him; he spent some time making puffs of steam with it. It was strange, standing inside the phone box. The light was on in there, but it was almost completely dark outside now aside from the distantly spaced street lights. Anyone could be out there, watching him. Thursday could be out there.

 

That was an interesting enough thought to make him catch the door and start to open it, before he remembered that DeBryn had asked him to stay. He looked doubtfully at the phone for a moment, and then decided that the doctor would never have to know.

 

He’d just got out of the booth, and taken a few steps down the road when he heard a car door slam shut and a voice calling “Morse.” Turning, he saw DeBryn hurrying towards him. “Morse, are you alright, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Morse said, feeling suddenly foolish as he realised why DeBryn had offered to come and pick him up; he’d thought Morse was hurt. Morse certainly hadn’t meant to worry the doctor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you thought – I’m fine.”

 

“Fine?” The doctor seemed distinctly unimpressed. “I’ll be the judge of that. Let me have a look at you,” and he reached out and gripped Morse’s chin, turning it towards the light from the nearest street lamp. Seconds after that, he brought his other hand up to touch Morse’s cheek, his neck, his hand. “Your skin’s like ice! What definition of fine encompasses hypothermia, exactly?”

 

“I am a bit cold,” Morse admitted.

 

“A bit-“ DeBryn paused, and then took Morse’s arm. “We’re going to get into the car now, Morse.” Morse nodded, and followed without complaint. DeBryn leaned over him to fasten Morse’s seatbelt, and then turned the heater up full blast. He muttered to himself for the entire drive, but Morse gazed contentedly out of the window and didn’t hear any of it. Pins and needles had slid unpleasantly over his skin for the first minute, until his eyes unfocused and he stopped noticing them. 

 

The sudden quiet of the car engine turning off startled him back to reality, and he snapped his head around to find DeBryn watching him. “Out you get, then Morse.” He fumbled with the seatbelt, and eventually managed to get it undone. His hands felt clumsy and uncoordinated. DeBryn didn’t help this time, keen eyes busy observing him instead.

 

He was guided up a long path through what he thought must have been a rather lovely front garden when it was light. He could see the shapes of large bushes and trees outlined against the night sky, feel the tread of soft earth when he missed a paving stone. Then they were inside a solid wooden front door, and Morse squinted against the light as DeBryn flipped the switch in the hall.

 

Several things happened what seemed like very fast. He blinked, and was on a sofa with a blanket wrapped around him. Blinked again, and had his hands around a cup of hot soup. Blinked once more, and DeBryn had stripped his shoes and socks off, and was immersing his feet in a bowl of luxuriously warm water.

 

He must have dozed off after that, and woke warm and dry and content a while later. He was lying on a wide, comfortable couch, and covered with a thick, soft blanket. The tartan fringes of it tickled his nose where it was pulled up around him. DeBryn was sitting in a comfy looking chair off to one side of him, reading a book. His glasses had slipped low on his nose, and he looked completely relaxed.

 

Morse rather liked DeBryn, he decided. “Mmm,” he said, not properly awake, and then yawned. DeBryn carefully marked his place in the book and set it aside. He looked at Morse for a moment, then removed his glasses and cleaned them industriously with a handkerchief.

 

Morse now became aware of the facts, in quick succession, that DeBryn had brought him to his home, had taken care of him when Morse had been unwell, and had picked him up after Morse had acted like a lunatic over the phone. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, having no idea what to say.

 

Glasses restored to their proper place, DeBryn looked at him severely. “I almost called Detective Thursday. I still shall, in fact, but I wanted to talk to you myself first.” Seeing Morse’s eyes flick around the room, he added, “I brought you to mine. It’s half past eight; you slept for a couple of hours.”

 

It felt incredibly awkward to be having this conversation lying down. Morse swung his legs down off the couch, and pushed himself to sit upright on the sofa. He kept the blanket wrapped around him, but pulled one arm free to push back the hair flopping over his forehead. “I’m sorry.” His tongue felt thick and ineloquent. “I don’t know why I called you.”

 

“Oh, I’m incredibly glad you did. I-“ Debryn paused, then said, “Can you tell me what happened to you today, Morse? Everything you remember?”

 

It would have seemed like an odd request, current circumstances notwithstanding, except that Morse recalled again what he’d been thinking about the changes he’d felt in the morning. He described them to the doctor, and then carried on. “Then I went to work-“

 

“It’s the weekend. Did you have a case?”

 

“No, I, ah, I didn’t remember that until I got there. And then I walked to the river and found somewhere to sit.”

 

DeBryn waited for a moment, obviously expecting there to be more to it. “And what time was that?” he asked when no more was forthcoming.

 

“I’m not sure. Nine, maybe, by the time I got there? No, past nine, because I was running late. Nearer half nine even – I stopped for some breakfast on the way. I think.”

 

“What did you do by the river, Morse?”

 

“I just-“ Morse struggled inarticulately, “-watched it. I don’t know. I don’t  _know_.”

 

“Morse, did Thursday break the bond? Is that what this is?”

 

Morse opened his mouth to deny it automatically, but then doubt assailed him. Could that be what was causing this haze? Had Thursday somehow managed it last night after he’d left? No. “No,” he said certainly. “I’m just – I can’t stop daydreaming,” he said wretchedly.

 

“Daydreaming?” DeBryn sounded surprised. “Daydreaming about – oh!” Morse blushed with mortification. DeBryn chuckled. “You stay here a minute, Morse.”

 

He left the room, and a minute later Morse heard his voice in the hall. Fragments of one sided-conversation such as ‘my house,’ ‘hypothermia,’ ‘new symptoms,’ and ‘welcome,’ drifted through to the living room. Morse still felt too sleepy and warm to think about it too much.

 

Sometime later, Morse found he couldn’t even guess how long, DeBryn brought him back a glass of brandy. Morse seemed to remember him mentioning the brandy at some point before.

 

The pathologist was more at ease now. “What brought this on, then?” he asked companionably. “This change of symptoms?”

 

Morse took a long sip of the liquid, and felt it warm his insides. “I want to Thursday’s house yesterday,” he said quietly.

 

“Yes?”

 

Morse nodded. “He wants me to – He and Mrs Thursday, they said… Actually,” Morse said abruptly, “I’m really confused about that. And he kissed me.”

 

“Did he?”

 

Morse nodded again. “He doesn’t want to break the bond,” he mumbled, and darted a glance at DeBryn. “You were right. But I’m not really sure how anything else would work.”

 

“I think that’s probably something you need to work out together, Morse.”

 

The tumbler of brandy was mostly empty now, and Morse peered into it slightly mournfully. “I’m glad he doesn’t want to break it,” he said, and it occurred to him that he was talking about this rather more than he usually would have. “Not just because it would hurt, and I’m scared. Because I love him.”

 

“That’s perfectly understandable,” DeBryn said soothingly. “Of course you don’t want to lose the bond.”

 

“But I would,” Morse persisted anxiously, “if he needed me to.”

 

DeBryn came over with the bottle, and topped up Morse’s glass, then his own. Settling back into his seat with a sigh, he said “Today could have been very serious, Morse, you do realise that?” Morse frowned at him. “If you’d sat out there for any longer, or if you hadn’t called me… What if you were this distracted when you were at work – confronting a dangerous suspect?”

 

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” Morse said, but the lack of conviction in his own words was noticeable. He drank some more of the brandy. “Do you think it will get better?”

 

“Well, that rather depends on the reason for the change. It could be because you and Thursday initiated… romantic contact, shall we say. Or it could be because you’ve allowed yourself to accept the presence of the bond, rather than completely rejecting it as you were previously.”

 

Morse opened his mouth to object to the last, and then thought about it. He _had_  been rejecting the bond. Every moment of every day, he’d wished he hadn’t had it, had wanted to supress it, get rid of it, so that it didn’t end up causing problems for him and Thursday. It hadn’t occurred to him that doing so might in itself make the symptoms worse. “Oh,” he said finally.

 

“Yes, ‘oh.’ To be honest it could be either. If it’s the latter, then I would imagine the intensity of it might fade after the first rush of the bond integrating a little more.”

 

“And if it’s due to the former? If it’s because we…”

 

DeBryn sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Morse. I’ve read up on all the material I could find available, but the amount that’s known scientifically is still extremely limited. It’s entirely possible that this is just the effect of the bond pushing for completion, especially since it’s been so long denied. If anything, it might escalate. Do you remember anything similar from your first time through?”

 

“With Susan? I’m not sure. We were always together, always touching for the first couple of weeks, and we, well, we… very soon after we met. Once we realised there was a bond, the college gave us some time off.” Morse closed his eyes. “That is to say, there was no need to daydream, because she was right there.”

 

Whatever DeBryn might have said in reply was lost when there was a brisk knock at the door. “That’ll be your inspector,” the doctor said as he pushed himself up from the chair. Morse was left gaping at his back.

 

“Thursday? Here?” But the doctor didn’t respond, and Morse soon heard the front door bolt being drawn back and the door opening.

 

“Good evening, Inspector,” he heard DeBryn say. Morse sunk low into the cushions, and wondered if it was possible to die from sheer embarrassment. They talked quietly for a minute or two in the hallway, and Morse’s curiosity almost drew him out before he heard them move again. Their voices became more distinct as they came nearer. “-not quite himself. He’s fine now, but his core temperature was-“

 

They rounded the doorway, and Thursday’s eyes immediately fixed on him. “Morse,” he breathed, and was across the room in an instant.

 

“I’m fine,” Morse insisted by rote, as Thursday’s hands checked him over. They lingered on his face, his chest and arms, and, even once Thursday seemed satisfied and sat beside him, they started their assessment all over again. Morse blushed, but Thursday’s touch felt wonderful, and the brandy gave him the boldness to lean into it rather than away. “Really. Fine,” he repeated as Thursday started running his fingers over the back of Morse’s head as though to check for bumps – for the third time.

 

Thursday paused in his motions, as if only just realising what he was doing. “More trouble than you’re worth,” he muttered roughly, and pulled Morse into his arms with no chance for opposition. Morse’s head came to rest against Thursday’s chest, hands trapped snugly between their bodies and the blanket, and Thursday’s arm was strong around his back and side.

 

“S’nice,” he mumbled softly. The hand that had come up to card through his hair stilled for a moment, and then Thursday huffed a laugh.

 

“Alright, lad, alright. I see what you mean about not being himself,” he said over Morse’s head.

 

“That may also be due to the excellent brandy I have been plying him with,” DeBryn said. “For restorative purposes.”

 

“What happened?” Thursday asked DeBryn. Morse thought that perhaps he should be offended at not really being included in this conversation, but it was far too pleasant being held and caressed for him to contemplate moving.

 

“Apparently Morse noticed a modification of his symptoms this morning. He felt a good deal less ill, but instead started losing time. I suspect this may be due to the changing nature of your relationship, or his acceptance of it.”

 

Thursday’s chest rumbled under Morse’s cheek. “He told you about yesterday?”

 

“A little. Enough for me to suspect it may have been the cause of this alteration.”

 

“But he’ll be alright?”

 

There was the sound of a glass clinking. “If you mean in the broader sense,” DeBryn said eventually, “then I believe the issue needs to come to some kind of resolution. How have you been feeling today, yourself? Different?”

 

Thursday’s hand stopped moving in his hair, and Morse made a muted noise of protest. After a moment, the hand slid around to cup his face instead – fingers tracing lightly over his cheek, his eyelids, his lips. “I’m not sure,” Thursday said after a minute of gentle touches. “Been the strangest day. I could have sworn Morse was there, half the time – I kept reaching out to touch him. I kept…”

 

“Mmm. Well, I don’t know how much is normal, and how much is intensified because you two have put things off so long. And I suspect Morse may have the worse of it due to his history.”

 

“He told you about it?”

 

“A little. I believe he finds it hard to discuss.”

 

“Did he tell you what she - what she did exactly?”

 

“No, though I can guess some of the specifics from my reading. It must have been singularly unpleasant. I cannot imagine a person less deserving of it.”

 

“No.” They all sat in silence for a while, DeBryn sipping his drink and Thursday stroking Morse’s face and side. Once his hand caught on the bandage covering the healing wound from Gull, and Morse winced slightly. “Sorry, lad,” he murmured, and Morse subsided. Thursday took a deep breath, chest inflating under Morse. “How will it affect him now? The fact that he had another bond before?”

 

“We are in uncharted territory there, I’m afraid. The severance of his previous bond caused severe damage to his emotional equilibrium, to his ability to feel certain emotions, say – although we are still incredibly in the dark as to how bonds work in the first place. While I believe the issue was resolving itself naturally, the development of your new bond has rather kick-started it; possibly to the point of being a bit overwhelming.”

 

“Is it hurting him?” Thursday asked gruffly.

 

“Not as such, beyond what you already know - although I understand the situation isn’t ideal. If things go on much longer, however, it’s possible that things may begin to… destabilize, given his history.”   

 

“He’s very resistant to… well.” Morse made a quiet noise of dissent, and tried to bury his head further. “Well, you are,” added Thursday. “I didn’t know you were awake. I’d have been talking to you otherwise – taking advantage of the fact that you aren’t trying to bolt out of the door. Or talking back.”

 

Morse hmphed quietly, and DeBryn laughed. “I’m not sure about the talking back, Inspector; I rather feel he could do that in his sleep.”

 

Thursday snorted. “Maybe. Morse, have you given any more thought to what we talked about last night? I know you’ve not been yourself today, but-“

 

“I just… How would it work?” Morse mumbled, or tried to; the words coming out were muffled from the press of his mouth against Thursday’s jumper. Then, almost immediately, “It won’t work.”

 

“Here we go again,” said Thursday. “Though perhaps it was wrong of me not to want to talk specifics; maybe that’s exactly what you needed. I wish you would bloody talk to me sometimes, Morse,” he added almost as an afterthought. Morse began to feel an urge to pull back, to retreat into a corner, but he fought it for the moment, wanting to remain in the safety and comfort of Thursday’s arms. Thursday sighed. “I’m being selfish, wanting to keep things as they are with my family. It’s not what’s right for you. It’s not how things should be with you.” And that tipped some threshold that Morse could not fight against, and he withdrew from Thursday’s arms. Thursday let him go, though his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach out for him again.

 

Pressed against the arm of the couch, Morse glanced quickly at DeBryn, who was watching him with a kind eye, and then at Thursday. “No, sir,” he said shakily. “Not selfish. You’re doing what’s best for them.”

 

“Can you tell me what it is that worries you about it, the idea of us trying together?”

 

The answers almost tripped over themselves to rush off Morse’s tongue, but there were too many so he bit them back and forced himself to think about it. Not that he even knew the mechanics of what Thursday was suggesting, but in the end the core answers were the same. “That Mrs Thursday and the children will resent me; will blame you for my presence. That you’ll end up resenting me too, for disrupting your life.”  _Hating me_ , he didn’t add.

 

When he dared to glance up, both of the other men appeared equally astonished that he’d actually answered. It had been an effort to do so, and Morse could not take any satisfaction in their reaction.

 

“Well,” said DeBryn, rising suddenly from his chair. “I think I shall retire to my study. There’s a guest room upstairs at your convenience, first on the right. The bathroom’s on the other side of the stairs. No, Morse, don’t even think about leaving tonight. You are very welcome here.” The doctor gathered his glass and book. “Goodnight, both of you.”

 

His leaving felt like the ripples caused by skimming a stone across the water; once he was gone the room was quiet and still.

 

“We’ve not told the children yet, Morse.” Morse nodded, he’d thought not, especially since they’d been so friendly with him the previous evening. “Not because we didn’t think they deserved to know, but because we weren’t sure what you-“

 

Thursday reached out a hand in his direction, but halted it mid-air. “May I touch you?” he asked finally, almost formally, and Morse was startled by the question. While he’d never felt any lack of respect in Thursday’s touches in the last few weeks, the other man had certainly never asked.

 

“Yes,” he said, and his voice sounded almost strangled.

 

Thursday rested his hand high on Morse’s right shoulder, and brushed the skin above his collar with his thumb. Then his hand slid upwards, smoothing up Morse’s neck, coming to cradle the back of his head. Thursday had been turned to face him ever since Morse had pulled away, now he moved in close and for a heart stopping moment Morse thought he was going to kiss him again. He stopped though, half a foot away, and his eyes roved over Morse’s face.

 

“You’ve given no indication you felt _that_ way for me, Morse, not ‘til yesterday. You got sick, and upset, and withdrawn.  _I’m_  the one who couldn’t stop touching you, who kept doing it even after I realised that the way I was behaving wasn’t right. You just… tolerated it. Once I knew about the bond, I thought it made sense; I wanted you, but you didn’t want me.” Morse drew breath to object, but Thursday stopped his lips with a finger. “Then I found out about your previous bond, and I thought maybe it was because of that – maybe that was affecting how you felt.

 

“I talked to Win about it, and, while we need to make this bond work in some way, I’m certainly not going to do anything you don’t want, Morse. I would never.” His voice shook when he said the last. “And so I asked you, and I kissed you – because I had to know. Thought you’d shove me off if you didn’t want… but then you seemed…”

 

Morse moved his lips under Thursday’s finger, feeling the catch of slightly calloused skin, and Thursday lowered it slowly, waiting. Morse drew a quick breath, tried to speak, and found words wouldn’t come. “Take your time, lad,” Thursday encouraged softly.

 

Morse looked at Thursday’s chin instead of his eyes, and tried again. “I wanted you from the first,” he confessed quietly. “From the moment I was splashed by that _bloody_ car and you wiped away the mud.”

 

Thursday’s eyes widened as he thought back. “Is that when?” Morse nodded. “I wasn’t sure. I had no idea.”

 

“First time we touched each other’s skin,” Morse explained. “And every time you touched me after that, it felt…” he gave a self-deprecating laugh. “ _Amazing_. _Special._ And you kept doing it, more and more.  At the time I thought I was just imagining things, but then I realised… After that I felt guilty, every time you touched me, that I was enjoying it without your knowing. But then I realised I needed it, or things got much worse.”

 

Thursday’s eyes searched his. “Morse.”

 

“And to even think such things was to imagine you being unfaithful to your wife – how could I? Aside from the touches you seemed fine, and I thought I could live with the symptoms, at first. I was so hoping that we could just ignore it and you could still have your life.”

 

“While you, what, watched from afar?” Morse said nothing. “You’d have been so unhappy though, Morse, even if we could have done that.” His fingers rubbed gently at the back of Morse’s head. “And you’d have been ill. DeBryn showed me a list of some of the things people experience when they’re in the first stages of a bond – I know you had at least the temperature, and I think you felt sick, too. How many other ones, Morse?” More shook his head, tried to pull back, but Thursday’s grip remained firm. “How bad has it been?” Thursday pressed doggedly.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Morse adamantly. “Anyway, it seems to be better today.” That gave them both pause, as they thought about the previous night, and Thursday’s eyes dropped with weighty inevitability to Morse’s lips.

 

“Morse,” he whispered hoarsely, and Morse had never heard his voice sound like that before, deep and strained. He wet his lower lip involuntarily, and saw Thursday’s eyes avidly follow the motion. “ _Morse_.”

 

Thursday’s eyes flicked back up to meet his, and then he leaned forward, ever so slowly, and brushed a kiss across Morse’s forehead. He stayed there for a few seconds, lips pressed to Morse’s skin, and the sound of Morse’s quickened breathing echoed between them. “Sir, I don’t-”

 

Thursday’s smile when he pulled back was regretful. “Alright,” he said, “no need for you to say more.”

 

Immediately, Morse realised that his words had been taken as a rejection. Given the vast number of complications he still considered attached to the matter, he should have been grateful that Thursday hadn’t kissed him _. But he wasn’t_. Something in his chest had coiled in anticipation of that kiss, had longed for it, and now felt overstretched and taut.

 

“Sir,” he whispered again, and brought his own hand to Thursday’s face. His fingers looked long and pale as they covered Thursday’s cheek, as they swept over beloved features. Thursday had closed his eyes at the first touch – seemed even to be holding his breath.

 

It shook Morse to the core, that he had this much power over someone. That Thursday wanted him this much.

 

He leaned forward and pressed his own kiss to Thursday’s brow. It was the first time he’d ever deliberately made an overture to Thursday, and something twisted uncomfortably tight inside him for a moment before relaxing. He suddenly felt euphoric, and the fact that his mind knew it to be an alien sensation caused by the bond didn’t lessen its effect.

 

His lips whispered down over Thursday’s closed eyelids, the length of his cheek, the line of his jaw. His hand tilted Thursday’s head back, and Morse placed a quick, daring kiss to the side of Thursday’s throat. Thursday exhaled a long, slow breath, and his fingers in Morse’s hair tugged lightly.

 

Morse lifted his head and contemplated Thursday’s face again. The euphoria seemed to fade, leaving him feeling strangely meditative and mellow. Thursday was keeping as still as possible, and Morse rather thought he’d let Morse do anything he wanted to him.

 

Almost dreamily, he lowered his lips to the corner of Thursday’s mouth, and brushed them back and forth there. Thursday shuddered, and Morse drew backwards slightly, but then didn’t otherwise move. Satisfied, Morse moved back in - to the other corner of Thursday’s mouth this time. Brushed his lips back and forth. Darted his tongue out to quickly taste. Sweet and slightly salty at the same time. Brandy as well – maybe DeBryn had given him a shot at the door?

 

“ _Morse_ ,” Thursday couldn’t seem to keep himself from saying, and the movement of his lips against Morse’s as he spoke made Morse shiver.

 

He pulled back again. Thursday was wearing a jumper over the top of a shirt – no tie. The top button of his shirt was already open;  Morse carefully undid the next and grazed his fingers over the revealed skin. He slid a little closer, going up on one knee on the couch, and again ducked his head to taste the skin of Thursdays’ throat. This time Thursday’s fingers fisted tightly in Morse’s hair, but still made no attempt to direct him. Morse nuzzled his way up under Thursday’s chin, breathing him in, cheekily biting at his jaw and making Thursday draw in breath sharply. The sound went straight through Morse in a bolt of arousal.

 

Finally, finally, he fitted his lips over Thursday’s in an inquisitive caress. This was clearly the permission Thursday had been waiting for, as he rushed back to life all at once, tilting his head to a better angle and biting carefully at Morse’s lower lip.

 

The feel of Thursday taking control ignited a pool of desire in Morse’s belly, and he gave a low moan as Thursday pulled him closer, tugging him down with him as he leaned against the back of the sofa. Morse’s knee skidded out from under him at the move, and Thursday wrapped an arm around his lower back and _pulled_. Morse settled against him, heart still pounding from almost falling. Then he shifted slightly and froze in surprise at the feel of Thursday fully hard against him; of his own erection pressing into Thursday’s stomach.

 

God, he was in Thursday’s _lap_.

 

He broke the kiss, rearing back in wide eyed consternation. Thursday’s hands on his neck and back kept the faintest pressure, stopping him from going too far. “I didn’t mean-“ he panted. He raised his hands from where they’d been supporting him on Thursday’s chest, rocking back a little further, and crossed his arms self-consciously.

 

Thursday’s eyes were glazed and dark, watching every move Morse made. “Alright, Morse?” Thursday asked after a moment, and his tone was reassuringly normal. Morse relaxed a little, let Thursday’s hands sway him forward again.

 

“Sir,” he said, in lieu of an answer. Thursday lips twitched in a smile at that - the man probably despaired of getting Morse to call him anything else - and then gently steered Morse back to his previous position. Morse placed a quick hand on the back of the sofa for support, and the other hovered for a moment before settling on Thursday’s shoulder. Thursday looked at him a moment longer, and then leaned up to kiss him again.

 

This kiss was softer, more relaxed, Thursday’s lips pliable against his own. Morse felt completely surrounded by Thursday’s touch and presence.  It was strangely comforting – an oddly similar sensation to waking up warm under the blanket earlier.

 

After a moment Thursday pulled away, and gently stroked his hand over Morse’s hair. “Better get you settled upstairs,” he said. “You’ve had a long day.”

 

Morse climbed awkwardly out of Thursday’s lap and straightened his clothing, feeling suddenly shy. As he stared at the thick carpet, his thoughts of a day, even a couple of hours ago – that they should break the bond, that he couldn’t be with Thursday – now seemed suddenly impossible. Incomprehensible, even. There was no way that he could survive without this; without Thursday’s touch and affection.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said quietly beside him, and he looked up to see Thursday gesture towards the doorway.

 

He took the first three steps without thinking, and then Thursday’s hand came to rest gently at the small of his back as they walked, and he couldn’t have summoned thoughts if he tried. Thursday released him so that he could start up the stairs, and after he took the first couple he heard the inspector’s heavy tread behind him. Surprised that Thursday was following, he half turned, but Thursday didn’t stop moving and Morse was forced to keep going – taking a few steps more quickly – in order not to knock into him.

 

At the top of the stairs he stood aside, and folded his arms obstinately across his chest. “Sir-“

 

“Please don’t fight me on this, Morse,” Thursday said wearily as he came to a halt beside him. “I’ve had a few too many scares in the last week and a half, and I need to see this one through.” Morse hesitated, not exactly sure what Thursday was suggesting. Thursday’s fingers came up to tap under his chin.

 

“You should be getting home,” Morse said a little uncertainly.

 

“I’m staying here tonight,” Thursday said simply. “Win knows that. No, don’t worry about anything Morse, not about her and not about…” He tilted his head in the direction of the bedroom. “I’m staying. And you need to get some rest now.”

 

A moment’s stalemate and then Morse folded, glad and nervous at the same time. The pervasive sleepiness of before had left him utterly, and he imagined himself lying as stiff as a board all night, unable to get a moment’s rest.

 

The room wasn’t large – big enough to squeeze in a double bed and a small chest of drawers. The walls were a faded jade colour dimly lit by yellow-hued lighting, and the bedspread – when Morse could bring himself to look at it – a pale cream.

 

“Right, I’m going next door. You sort yourself out; back in a minute.” Thursday left, presumably to use the facilities, and Morse was left standing in the cramped space by the foot of the bed, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

 

It dawned on him that he would have to get _into_ the bed, and that doing so fully dressed would be at best uncomfortable and at worst ridiculous. He’d already lost his jacket at some point after DeBryn had brought him home, but gained a pair of warm woollen socks not his own.

 

The top few buttons of his shirt were undone slowly. He idly imagined Thursday coming in while he was getting undressed, and felt his thoughts grow distant. Before he could fully submerge into the fantasy, it occurred to him that there was a very real chance that Thursday actually _would_ return and find him standing there half dressed, and he snapped into action with urgency. The remainder of his shirt was swiftly undone, and he discarded it on the floor without second thought. Shucked his trousers in seconds, and then stood indecisively in his vest and smalls. That would have to do, he couldn’t imagine Thursday seeing him in less. Or rather, he  _could_ imagine….

 

He yanked off the bedspread, tugged back the duvet and climbed in, pulling the covers up to his neck. For a moment he was struck with the image of himself as a heroine from one of his operas, valiantly defending her virtue, and the thought made him snort in amusement.

 

There was a soft knock on the door, and after a short pause it opened.  Thursday came in and closed the door behind him, as casually as if he were entering any other room at any other time, not one containing his erstwhile bagman whom he was about to sleep with.

 

He removed his clothes casually too, taking his time with his shirt buttons, getting stuck on the ones in his cuffs. “Here,” he said, holding out his arm in Morse’s direction, “can you…?”

 

Morse sat up, and half crawled over the covers towards him, completely forgetting his earlier self-consciousness. Kneeling up on the mattress at the edge of the bed, he bit his lip as he worked the button through the stiffened shirt sleeve.

 

“Too much starch,” Thursday said ruefully, and Morse smiled up at him. The moment seemed to stretch; Thursday looking down at him with heart stopping warmth, Morse holding Thursday’s wrist in both hands. Thursday’s eyes crinkled at the corners as Morse watched, and then self-awareness came rushing back in.

 

“Right,” Thursday said, and turned half-sideways as he shrugged out of his shirt and folded it – giving Morse the chance to retreat back under the covers unscrutinised. After he laid his shirt on the chest of drawers, his hands hesitated at his waist. “Would you rather I left these on?” he asked sincerely, and his voice let Morse know that Thursday wouldn’t think less of him either way.

 

Morse found that having the power to tell Thursday to  _take his trousers off_ , or not to, was a bit beyond him. He smiled awkwardly, raised one shoulder in a half shrug, and then rolled to face the wall so that he wasn’t watching Thursday any more. After all, the other man had done him the courtesy of leaving the room.

 

“Well, that wasn’t a yes,” Thursday muttered behind him, and then there was the sound of rustling as he finished getting undressed.

 

Every sound in the room seemed amplified as Morse heard the creak of floorboards, and then Thursday moved slowly over to the bed.  The duvet was drawn back on the other side, and then Morse tilted as Thursday’s weight caused the mattress to sink.

 

“Hope you don’t hog the covers.” Thursday turned off the bedside lamp, and then the only light was from the crack under the door. “I might snore.”

 

Morse felt his heart was beating like a rabbit’s; fast and desperate. He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone else in years. He didn’t even  _know_ if he snored.

 

He could practically feel Thursday’s warm, solid presence behind him, even though they weren’t touching. Should they be touching? What did Thursday want him to do? What was he expecting?

 

“If you could think a little less loudly, Morse…” Thursday murmured after a minute of tense silence. “I’m a bit knackered myself.”

 

The tension rolled out of Morse like water squeezed from a cloth, leaving him limp and tired again. He huffed a laugh, and flipped onto his back. “Goodnight, sir,” he said, even if he still wasn’t convinced he would be able to sleep.

 

“’Night, Morse.”

 

 

\---------

 

Morse woke but felt as if he were still dreaming; his whole body suffused with warmth and wellbeing, his hips rocking gently against a firm surface with sparks of pleasure. He nuzzled closer, letting out a contented sigh, and felt the surface his head was resting on shift slightly.

 

Sudden clarity caused him to freeze, every muscle in his body clamping down in an effort not to move a hairs-breadth.

 

Wherever he was, it was quiet, calm, only the sound of his breathing and someone else’s. Under his cheek was the softness of skin and the texture of cotton, and a steady rise and fall. He was pressed against someone’s side, one leg flung atop them, and lying half on top of their arm.

 

Having held his breath for far too long, he dragged in a long, cautious inhale, trying to catch up on much needed oxygen without giving away that he was awake. He smelled a soap he recognised, a faint hint of tobacco, and the scent of sweat from a long day. He wanted to bury his face in it – rub his nose in that smell until it never left.

 

_Thursday_.

 

His hips gave an involuntary twitch, canting forward into the obligingly placed leg in front of him. He forced himself still again, and struggled to keep his breathing quiet. He didn’t want to wake Thursday up.

 

The hand which was resting lightly against his back moved slightly.

 

Morse held his breath.

 

It moved again – it could have been just a restless sleep movement, except that two fingers came to rest lightly at the base of Morse’s tailbone, right at the gap between his vest and pants. A spike of desire ricocheted through him, and his hips shifted again without his permission. His breath hitched at the feel of Thursday’s thigh, of the friction it created, and he froze again, waiting to see if Thursday had heard. God, what was he _doing_?

 

Thursday’s hand moved again, just the slightest brush sideways, but this time there was no mistaking the gentle pressure at the base of his spine.

 

Morse took a moment to just breathe, to listen to Thursday breath – deep and even. Cautiously, carefully, he rolled his hips forward again, deliberately this time. The hand on his spine flexed gently with the movement, and _Christ_ , Thursday was awake and wanted Morse to… and was leaving it up to him whether he did or not.

 

Morse pressed his face slightly further against Thursday’s chest, eyes still closed, and began to smoothly rock himself in long, rolling motions against Thursday. Thursday’s hand kept up the gentle pressure, a constant presence, and Morse’s breathing became ragged.

 

Thursday’s thigh shifted, only slightly, but enough to immeasurably improve the angle and pressure, and the speed of Morse’s movements increased. Morse’s lips parted, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as he felt pleasure build in his groin. He nudged his face helplessly against Thursday’s chest, and then roughened fingertips dipped under the waistband of his underwear and gently stroked across the tops of his buttocks. Morse shuddered, spasmed, and pressed tightly against Thursday as he came, panting softly into his shoulder.

 

After a few moments his grip on Thursday loosened, although one last brush of Thursday’s fingers over sensitive skin made him shiver and twitch again. He tucked his head down a bit, breath slowing, and hummed contentedly. There was a catch in Thursday’s breathing which might have been a laugh, or might have been something else, and then Morse drifted back to sleep again.

 

\-----------

 

Waking up properly ought to have been awkward. It was just starting to get light, so it must have been about eight or just before. Morse could see the green outlines of trees outside the net curtains. The room looked different in the morning light – even smaller actually.

 

A hand came to cup his shoulder, and he could avoid looking at Thursday no longer. “Gone over all shy, have you?” Thursday asked, but his tone was kind.

 

Morse literally didn’t know what to say – the vaguely dry, itchy feeling in his underwear reminded him vividly of what had happened earlier in the morning.

 

He turned his face sideways into Thursday’s shoulder instead and, once there, pressed a quick kiss against it. “Ah, lad,” Thursday said affectionately. “Come on then, time we were up.”

 

Morse rolled until he found the edge of the bed, then carefully slid onto the carpet. He didn’t allow himself to think about his state of undress as he retrieved his trousers and pulled them on. With a quick look back at Thursday, who was now sitting up in bed looking amused, he stuck his head around the door to check it was all clear before making a dash for the bathroom.

 

He got back to find Thursday mostly dressed. “You’re invited back to ours for the rest of the day, and we won’t take no for an answer,” he said to Morse as soon as the door was closed again. Go home and get yourself sorted, and come round for lunch.”

 

“Should I-“

 

“And don’t even try to argue,” Thursday said strongly. Morse waited a moment, and tried again.

 

“Should I bring anything?” he asked, and his lips quirked in a half-smile as Thursday realised he hadn’t been protesting before.

 

“No, no, you don’t need to bring anything. Just yourself. You’ll be able to get there alright?”

 

“Yes, sir, it won’t be a problem.”

 

“Alright then. Lunch will be at half twelve probably, but you can come anytime from noon. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

 

Morse retrieved his shirt from the floor and shook it out. Thursday huffed, and Morse looked over to see him shaking his head. “Worse than our Sam, you are.” It should have felt strange, perhaps, to be compared to the man’s son, but instead it felt like being acknowledged as part of the family, almost. “Here,” Thursday said as Morse got his arm stuck in a sleeve. He came over and straightened the sleeve out – it had been partially inside out – and held it while Morse slipped his arm the rest of the way through.

 

Thursday reached for Morse’s collar, and started doing up his buttons; Morse tilted his head back to allow him access. It felt incredibly intimate, more so than Thursday kissing him or lying together in bed, even than what had happened this morning. Thursday’s face was creased in concentration as he worked his way down the shirt, and Morse studied it thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he said belatedly when Thursday reached the bottom.

 

Thursday slowly swept his hands up Morse’s sides, and held them bracketing his ribcage. “No need to thank me,” he said in a low tone, and Morse blushed.

 

They finished dressing without speaking further, although Thursday hummed absently as he worked. His hair ended up ruffled after he pulled his jumper over his head, and Morse gave a shy smile as he reached out to smooth it down. Thursday held still patiently for him to do so, then caught his hand and pressed a kiss to the palm of it. Morse’s breath caught in his throat, and they shared a look which might have led to a great deal of distraction had they not heard a door bang downstairs.

 

“Should probably be going,” said Thursday. “Come on then.”

 

They barely paused to say goodbye to their host, whose keen eyes swept over both of them and then twinkled knowingly at Morse. While whatever he thought had happened was probably a good deal more than what actually had, Morse still went crimson. He stubbornly held DeBryn’s gaze though, until Thursday caught his arm and pulled him towards the door.

 

They didn’t say much as they drove, but every time Thursday changed gear he would brush his fingers over the outside of Morse’s thigh, or reach across to rest his hand on Morse’s knee for a moment. It was driving Morse insane, and he completely lost his train of thought every time Thursday did it.

 

“I won’t come in,” Thursday said, which was very wise, Morse thought.  “See you in a few hours.”

 

Morse gave him a nod and got out of the car, jogging up the steps to his flat. It was the work of a moment to strip all of his clothes off – and realise that he’d left his jacket at DeBryn’s house – and then stand shivering as he waited for the bath to fill.

 

He felt his mind start to drift as he settled into the scalding water, but managed to remind himself that he’d be seeing Thursday in a few hours. He focused on that thought, hard, in order to keep himself in the present; focused on the feel of flannel running over his skin and the smell of soap. Once finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went back into the main room, still dripping.

 

He quickly rubbed his hands on the towel before carefully opening his record player; it was getting harder now, to find things that didn’t remind him of unpleasant memories. Rosalind Calloway’s voice would never again be the haven it once had, and several other tracks were now associated with Gull; with the madness in his voice as he said that they were just the same, that he would make Morse bond with him.

 

He chose a track from Carmen – _L’amour est un oiseau rebelle_ – and delicately set the needle. Pure and passionate tones filled his flat, and he closed his eyes and let them rush through him. His neighbours might be none too happy with it at this time on a Sunday morning, but they didn’t bang on the wall so he cast the thought aside.

 

Breakfast was buttered toast, slightly burned; he couldn’t help but wonder what Thursday was having. He must be sitting in the dining room, surrounded by his family. Warmth and chatter, and several cups of tea. Morse smiled to himself, and felt a slightly pained tug in the vicinity of his chest.  Perhaps this was how it would be now; Thursday would stay with his family, and occasionally meet with Morse at the weekends. It wasn’t enough, couldn’t possibly be enough, but it was so much more than Morse had thought he might get. He should be grateful – wanted to be grateful – but it suddenly felt as though this was almost worse than not having Thursday at all.

 

Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Mrs Thursday. “Hello, love,” she greeted him, and he thought the cheer in her voice sounded slightly forced. Perhaps she _hadn’t_ known Thursday had planned to stay last night. But Morse couldn’t imagine Thursday lying about a thing like that. “Bit of a problem with lunch – would you mind coming later?” she continued. “Around four, maybe?”

 

“No, of course not. Are you – is it still alright for me to come? If it’s not convenient, then I can always-“

 

“No, no,” she reassured him, “It’s fine, we’re just a bit disorganised this morning. Got some things to sort out. You come round after four, and I promise that I’ll make you a special dinner to make up for it.” He tried to tell her no such thing was necessary, but she hushed him and said her goodbyes.

 

Suddenly finding himself with extra time on his hands, Morse felt at a bit of a loss. He could go for a walk, but feared a repeat of yesterday. No other options seemed particularly appealing, so after finishing yesterday’s crossword – he’d nicked the paper from DeBryn’s entrance table on the way out with his blessing – he sat down with a book. He couldn’t focus on it though, getting no more than a few lines in at a time before his gaze flickered to the window.

 

It was a nice day. The sun was shining, and he could hear the birds singing outside.

 

He was fairly sure that he wouldn’t suffer the same issue with time-loss again, not when he had something to look forward to, to keep track of, and there was a lovely park near the Thursday house that he had driven past before when picking up his DI.

 

Morse packed a bag with a couple of books, a flask, an orange and a hardboiled egg, and dressed with slightly more care than usual. It wasn’t even for Thursday’s sake; somehow it mattered a great deal what  _Mrs Thursday_  thought of him. Then he put an extra jumper on before his coat, gloves and a scarf, just in case. And an extra pair of socks.

 

The park was quiet despite the weather, only populated by an older couple with a dog and a young family. There was still a bite to the air even with the sunshine, which Morse supposed might be keeping people away. It would have been a lovely place to sit on the grass in the summer – there was a spot under a particular tree which Morse eyed speculatively – but it was far too cold and damp for him to do so now.

 

He set up on a bench at the other end of the park from the entrance, where he couldn’t hear the cars as they passed by, and drew out the first of his books.

 

He was still distracted, but at least here there were things to look at; the first crocuses trying to push through too early, the dog as it barked at a squirrel, the slowly changing shadows cast by the trees. Morse made a point of checking his watch after every time he lost focus, and if it had been more than fifteen minutes and he hadn’t realised then he got up and did a circuit of the nearby flowerbeds.

 

When his fingers started getting a bit numb he slipped the gloves back on and drank some hot coffee from his flask. He held it close under his face so that the steam of it wafted up and warmed his face.

 

After he ate his lunch, he packed up his things and went for a brisk walk – doing a long loop around the surrounding streets. He wandered past the local pub and stopped in for half a pint, warming up a bit before heading back to the park. He read a little more, and this time his mind allowed itself to sink into the text in its normal manner, absorbing him enough that it was quarter to four almost before he noticed. The last fifteen minutes seemed to last for longer than the whole day – because the question of why they’d changed the time came back to haunt him.

 

‘After four,’ Mrs Thursday had said. He left the park at exactly four, and knocked on their door at five past.

 

“Morse.” Mrs Thursday was the one to open the door. Her cheeks were a little flushed, and her eyes worried. Morse was instantly on the alert. “Come in, come in.”

 

He stepped through hesitantly. “Is everything alright?” he asked her quietly. “Do you want me to go?”

 

Her eyes brightened a bit with tears, and she bit her lip. “No, love,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “It’s just been a bit of a difficult day. We’ve told Sam and Joan,” she said as she turned to lead the way, only to realise a few steps further that he wasn’t following her.

 

Morse had stopped dead in the hallway. He certainly hadn’t expected this. Not that Thursday hadn’t said the children deserved to know, but now? “I didn’t realise,” he managed.

 

“Let me take your coat.” She came back over to him. “What’s your first name, love? I can’t call you Morse.”

 

“Umm, it’s – I mean, no one really uses it…” She waited, and after a moment he gave in and said, “Endeavour. It’s Endeavour.”

 

“Endeavour? Come on through then.”

 

She led the way to the sitting room, where Thursday was smoking his pipe and Joan was reading a magazine. They both looked up at his entrance, though from the lack of surprise on their faces they’d been waiting for him.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said with a nod.

 

“Hello again,” said Joan, and Morse could see from the redness of her eyes that she’d been crying earlier.

 

Morse glanced quickly at Thursday, wondering if he should leave. Thursday gave the slightest shake of his head, then pointed at a chair with the stem of his pipe.

 

“Sam’s in his room,” Mrs Thursday said from behind him. Morse moved forward into the room so as not to block her. “He’ll be joining us later. Would you like a cuppa, Morse?”

 

“I, ah…” Morse stood uneasily in the centre of the room, not having quite decided whether or not it would be best to make a graceful exit. This was literally a scenario from his nightmares of late.

 

“Sit down before you sprain something,” Thursday rumbled. “I’ll have one too,” he added to Mrs Thursday.

 

Morse moved slowly to sit down. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “That would be lovely.”

 

“So, Joan, tell us more about this Patrick you met at the shop?” Thursday said, clearly picking up a previous line of conversation. Joan eyed Morse warily for a moment, then started talking with slightly faked cheer. It was an admirable effort, Morse thought, a better one than Morse could have managed at the moment.

 

He thought facetiously for a moment about asking if the Thursday’s had another room they could send  _him_  to until dinner, since he probably wouldn’t be much better company than Sam.

 

Mrs Thursday got Joan to help her bring the tea through – with homemade biscuits which melted in Morse’s mouth – and they all sat together. Clearly determined to get to know him better, Thursday’s wife began asking about his background, his family, his hobbies. Though she did it in an amiable manner, Morse felt as though he were being interrogated; his short answers were never enough for her. The fifth or sixth time she pushed him for more information, Joan stirred.

 

“Honestly mum, leave him alone,” she said, although both she and Thursday had been listening with equal curiosity to his answers. “Have you seen the new Beatles film? Help?”

 

It took him a moment to work out that was the title. “No, no I haven’t, I’m afraid.” The only time he tended to go to the cinema was when he was taking a girl out, and his last attempt at that had been over a year ago. “I’m never quite sure if I like most films,” he told her. “I don’t think I feel what the director wants me to feel.” Rather than being offended, she tilted her head and seemed to find him  _interesting_.  

 

“What about your sister? Does she like films.”

 

Morse tugged at his collar in discomfort. He’d removed the extra jumper in the hall, but he was still starting to feel too warm. “Um, yes, she does, actually. She used to go with her friends and her mother a lot.”

 

“ _Her_ mother?” Joan asked, sounding confused. And this was why he hated questions about his family.

 

“Yes,” Morse said, trying desperately to keep his voice neutral. “My father remarried after he and my mother divorced.” He put his empty tea cup down on the side table and looked down at the carpet, feeling ill at ease. After a moment’s silence, he decided the only way he was going to get on here was if he exerted himself. “What about you?” he asked Joan, “Do you like the Beatles then? What else do you like doing?”

 

She smiled at his asking, and it was a genuine smile. She chatted for a while about music, about her friends and work, and with only the barest of nods or prompts from him. It was _brilliant_ , he didn’t have to talk at all.

 

At some point Thursday tipped his head towards the door, and Mrs Thursday quietly got up. A minute later Morse heard her going upstairs, and felt his stomach tie itself back up in knots again.

 

Joan seemed to detect the change in mood, and moved to sit closer to him. “It was a bit of a shock,” she whispered to him. “Sam was upset.” Morse thought it was nice of her not to say she’d been upset too.

 

“Bit of a shock for me too,” he admitted quietly. “I never thought… well. I don’t really know what’s going on.”

 

Her eyes softened as he spoke, and he thought she looked at him differently. “Mum and Dad said some things, about how it happened and that you can’t help it. I know all about bonds of course,” she added confidently, “we had a class at school.” Morse struggled not to give his opinion on how much she might have actually learned from that.

 

“What are you two talking about?” asked Thursday from across the room.

 

“Nothing,” said Joan airily. “Go back to your newspaper, Dad!” He grunted, but did pick up the paper again. Morse noticed he still kept an eye on them though.

 

“How does it, you know, feel?” she asked after a moment. It was, of course, the most asked question of couples with bonds. Morse had never been good at answering it. Not last time, anyway; and he didn’t think it would be any better this time around.

 

“Strange,” he answered without thinking. “Sorry, I mean, sometimes wonderful and sometimes horrible.”

 

“What’s horrible about it?” She frowned, her nose wrinkling up a little.

 

“Well, not being with the person,” he said carefully. “Thinking that you can’t be together. And even if things are alright, there’s headaches and feeling sick to start with – those can last a while.”

 

“Oh,” she said, and went quiet.

 

Thursday seemed to think this was enough conversation between the two of them. “Joan, go and check on dinner would you, there’s a dear. Roast,” he added to Morse as she got up, “though don’t tell Win I spoiled the surprise.”

 

After she’d left, Morse turned wide eyes on Thursday. “You _told_ them?” he hissed.

 

Thursday seemed surprised. “Yes, of course – told you I would.”

 

“And then you invited me for dinner the same day? Even assuming _they_ were fine with that, _I_ could have used a little warning.”

 

Thursday snorted. “And have you run for Scotland? Not likely. And I had to tell them now, Morse, I talked to-“

 

They were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Thursday and Sam. Sam looked at Morse sullenly, but moved into the room when his mother gave him a push and said hello politely. In fact, scrupulous politeness was the main characteristic of his conversation the entire evening, and that conversation was very limited. The only time he showed any animation was when he started talking about his desire to go into the army in a couple of years, and the open distress on his mother’s face soon put a stop to that.

 

Dinner was indeed a treat. Beautifully roast beef swimming in rich gravy, roast potatoes perfectly crisp on the outside and fluffy in the middle, carrots and peas and golden brown Yorkshire puddings which Morse couldn’t help taking another of. Mrs Thursday seemed to grow more pleased the more he ate, so he said yes to seconds of everything and praised it all lavishly.

 

Joan seemed fully restored to her normal chatty self, teasing everyone at the table but particularly her brother, though she didn’t get much response from him. Thursday stopped conversation about work a couple of times, even though when Sam asked again about the stabbing it was the only time he was interested in something Morse had to say. Thursday and his wife largely carried the conversation, discussing their neighbours, upcoming events, and their plans for the summer – some of which bewilderingly seemed to include Morse.

 

“Where are you going for the next couple of weeks anyway?” Joan asked her father, and Morse looked up in surprise.

 

“I didn’t know you were going away, sir?”

 

“ _He calls him ‘sir,’_ ” muttered Sam to Joan with a groan.

 

Everyone else was looking at Morse as though he ought to know something which he didn’t. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Is it for work?” he asked.

 

“Morse,” Thursday started, then paused to put down his knife and fork. “Morse, I had a talk with Bright this morning.”

 

Morse blinked. “You went into work?”

 

“No, I gave him a call. I had to tell him, Morse.”

 

Morse’s mouth went dry as his brain tried to process this information. “You told Bright?” he asked hoarsely.

 

“With things the way they are, I had to, Morse, you can see that?” Thursday said in a conciliatory tone.

 

“No,” whispered Morse. “No.”

 

It seemed like a lot of things were happening without him knowing about them at the moment, but this one was… Bright knowing meant that they wouldn’t be able to work together. It might affect Thursday’s career, his reputation. It would certainly affect Morse’s – newly arrived, favoured Detective Constable turns out to be bonded to the DI. He might have to leave. He didn’t want to leave. Or, no, was that why Thursday was going to be away?  
  
“You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked, horrified.

 

“Upstairs, Now!” Mrs Thursday said sharply, and it took a second before Morse realised she was talking to the children. Both of them had been watching the interplay, fascinated, but obediently got to their feet and left the table. The three adults maintained an equilibrium of stilted silence until the sound of two bedroom doors shutting came from upstairs, then Thursday sighed.

 

“I’m not quitting the station, Morse. I’m taking leave.”

 

Morse’s mouth shaped the word ‘leave,’ and his worry subsided a little. He glanced between the other two. “Where are you going then? Why aren’t you taking Joan and Sam?” It was a bit odd that he hadn’t known about it; leave was normally logged long in advance, not to mention he would have expected Thursday to have been bragging about it.

 

In a very selfish, self-centred way, he worried about what the hell he was supposed to do if Thursday was going to be away for two weeks.

 

Thursday eyed him carefully, as though he was a bomb about to go off. “It’s the leave given to new bonded couples, Morse.”

 

That took another minute to comprehend. Morse opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

 

“I think you’ve surprised him, poor lamb,” said Mrs Thursday.

 

“It seems to have been his natural state, of late,” Thursday said dryly. He stood, and pulled a chair round the table to sit beside Morse. “Morse, DeBryn told me that we had to take the time – we’d be useless at work now that the bond is fully kicking in. It would be dangerous. Irresponsible.”

 

“But-“ managed Morse.

 

“And Bright needed to know, not just to arrange the leave, Morse; imagine if we didn’t tell him and he found out later? You can’t hide this sort of thing, and I’ll not have any rumours of favouritism.”

 

“You told the children.” Morse had got stuck on one point. “You called Bright, and told the children we’d be going on leave together, and _you_ _didn’t tell me_.”

 

Thursday seemed taken aback. “Well, that’s why I asked you over. I needed to clear it with the chief super first, but then I was going to-“

 

“This is my life too,” Morse said, only he wasn’t saying it, he was yelling it. Mrs Thursday rose quickly and quietly closed the door behind her as she left. “You can’t go around arranging things and then informing me as afterthought! I’m not saying no one else should know anymore, but I’d damn well appreciate being one of the first to.” He stopped, flushed and angry.

 

“Morse-“

 

“No, enough!” Morse got to his feet. “You haven’t even told me how you see this all playing out – whatever you and Mrs Thursday have discussed – you just want me to take it all on faith. Clearly your children don’t think this is going to work either. And why should they? This is all just some kind of – of freak show!”

 

Thursday stood and reached out. “Don’t touch me!” snapped Morse. “This was all a huge mistake.”

 

“Morse!”

 

“I don’t know what the hell I was thinking,” Morse muttered to himself, backing towards the door.

 

“You’re right.” Thursday raised his voice, and Morse stopped to look at him, hand pausing on the door handle. Thursday was standing back at the table, arms out in the gesture for peace. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

 

Morse eyed him suspiciously. No argument he’d ever had with Thursday had gone this easily – the inspector always fought until the end. “What do you mean?”

 

Thursday hesitated, then slowly lowered his hands. “I was so busy trying to take care of everything; I never stopped to think about how you’d feel about it. I should have told you Morse, should have asked you.” Morse stayed where he was, torn between leaving and staying. “Please, come and sit down, and let’s talk about this?”

 

Slowly, very slowly, Morse walked back to his chair. His elbow banged against his plate as he sat, and he pushed it further into the centre of the table, the smell of dinner suddenly unappetising.

 

He drew a deep breath. “What’s going to happen? Not the leave, what’s going to happen _after_? I know what I’ve been assuming, but you keep talking like I should know things I don’t, and I’m tired of it.”

 

Thursday started to say something, then backtracked. “What have you been assuming? No, please, it’s important.” Morse considered pushing the point that it was really Thursday’s turn to do some talking, but decided it wasn’t worth it.

 

“Most things will stay the same. You’ll stay with your family. Maybe once a week you could come visit me for a bit. We’ll have sex,” he said bluntly, his embarrassment reflex apparently short-circuited. “I’d hoped I could remain at the station, but I’m guessing that may not be possible now.”

 

“Morse-“

 

“And don’t mistake me, I’m grateful – pathetically grateful – that you aren’t going to break the bond and that you and your family are willing to take this on. But I still – It still concerns me. So please, when you’re planning something which is going to majorly rearrange my life, please tell me.” His voice cracked slightly on the last, and he dropped his gaze to the tablecloth.

 

“ _Morse_. Lad, you thought… And you still…”

 

Since he’d apparently rendered Thursday speechless, Morse got up and mechanically started piling up the dishes; at least everyone had got most of the way through dinner before it had been disrupted. Though he couldn’t help but wonder absently and a little wistfully if there hadn’t been dessert planned.

 

He was aware that Thursday had stood as well, and saw him approach from the corner of his eye. Thursday’s hands came out and covered his on the dishes, and gently squeezed until he put them down. “Alright, clearly I’ve been going about this all wrong.” Thursday laid a hand on his arm and Morse reluctantly allowed himself to be turned to face him.

 

“We want you to come and live with us. Morse, do you hear me? Joan’s been talking for a while now about maybe moving in with one of the girls from the bank, but even if she doesn’t, we can convert Win’s sewing room; we’ll do that in the meantime anyway.” Morse stared at him unblinking, uncomprehending. Thursday cupped his face with a tender hand.  “You’re not some bit on the side, Morse, and I never meant to make you feel that way. You’re right to doubt it will be easy to all live on top of each other as one family, but that’s what I want to try.”

 

“You want me… here?” Morse said, confused, the thought so jarring he couldn’t reconcile it.

 

“Yes,” said Thursday patiently.

 

“With Mrs Thursday?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Won’t she get – Won’t she be upset, having me here?”

 

Thursday hesitated. “I really don’t know, Morse. It’s the best solution I can think of at the moment, but I’ve no guarantee it will work. Would you be alright, living with Win?”

 

Morse shrugged uncertainly. He didn’t have any problem watching the two of them together; he’d accepted that this was Thursday’s place. But if Thursday was trying to bring him in, trying to say that _Morse_ had a place here too, then that was more difficult. Because Thursday would spend the night with his wife, of course, but Morse would only be a couple of rooms away, knowing that. Likewise, Mrs Thursday would have to live knowing that the two of them were doing - whatever they were doing - under her roof. Surely it was easier from afar, not having to think about that in detail. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

 

“If it doesn’t work Morse, then we’ll figure something else out. For that matter, if you have any thoughts?” But Morse shook his head. “Alright then.”

 

“Is Mrs Thursday coming on leave with us?” Morse brought himself to ask.

 

“Christ, no. That time’s for us. Especially since, from what I understand…” Thursday trailed off, and Morse knew exactly what he’d been given to understand. A thought which sent simultaneous tingles of desire and nerves through him.

 

“So where will we be?”

 

Thursday brightened. “I’ve got a friend with a cottage down by the seaside at Cornwall. Gave him a ring this morning-“ and my, but Thursday had had a busy morning “-and he’s happy to lend it out. It was going to be a surprise, but I’m guessing you’ve had a few too many of those recently.” When Morse didn’t speak for a moment, “Unless you’d rather not? Don’t like the sea?”

 

“No, I – that sounds lovely. I haven’t been to the seaside since I was a child. Thank you,” he added as an afterthought. “When?”

 

“Well, I have to drop some paperwork at the office first thing, but I could pick you up after that? It’ll take a good few hours to get down there.”

 

Still half in a daze, Morse agreed the time in the morning, and put Thursday off when he said he’d drive Morse home. “It’s dark,” he said disapprovingly.

 

Morse laughed. “It was almost dark when I got here. And I – I need the time.”

 

He went to say goodbye to Mrs Thursday in the living room. She looked him over, and gave his arm a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry for my part in it,” she said. “I thought he’d already talked to you. Though he did say you weren’t very well; maybe that’s why.”

 

He smiled and thanked her for her hospitality, saying she had nothing to be sorry for. She asked him what he’d like packed for his lunch the following day, and laughed when he said cheese and pickle sandwiches. “Fred said you did that, knew all his lunches by heart.”

 

He left with his heart aching and full, and his mind spinning. Two weeks with Thursday – more than he could have hoped for. But his career possibly in ruins, an uncertain future and an offer to torturously stay in the same house as Thursday’s family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help noticing Morse keeps being a bit damsel-in-distress like in this fic, and, while I kind of like him like that, I thought I'd let him fight back a bit :)
> 
> And I'm not kidding - I really will finish it next time. Really. After that, I'm only ever going to write short things. Very short. 100 words. Maybe 200.


	7. Cornwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse and Thursday go on leave together, and learn their way around their new relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is about three chapter's worth, as one really really epic chapter. 
> 
> Please note the rating has now changed to reflect the fact that Morse and Thursday...

It turned out neither of them got much sleep that night. Morse had stayed up late after packing, restlessly pacing around his flat with thrumming, nervous energy. When he eventually retired to bed, hoping that lying there would trigger the need to sleep, he found that it brought instead a hollow reminder of what it had been like the night before. Now, instead of losing time to his thoughts, every minute seemed to taken an age to pass.

 

The hours passed one by one, torturously slowly. He turned the bedside lamp on and checked his clock, checked it again. Again. His body remained convinced that there should be another person there with him, and it wasn’t going to relax until there was.

 

At ten past four in the morning he looked again. Only fifteen minutes had passed. It had felt like hours. His hand made a fist and thumped against the mattress, and then inexplicable tears were welling in his eyes. He blinked determinedly, but a moment later they spilled in exhaustion and frustration, and his breath hiccoughed a couple of times before he got it under control.

 

Right then, enough of lying there, said Thursday’s voice in his head.

 

He got up, unpacked, repacked, checked his record player again and put together a box of food in his fridge that he would leave with his neighbours. He started to tidy his flat out of sheer desperation.

 

By five o’clock he’d cleaned out the kitchen cupboards, swept and mopped the floor, cleaned the sinks, and was covered in a light sheen of sweat. He was almost, _almost_ tired, but the thought of lying in bed and getting frustrated all over again was repugnant.

 

He ran a bath instead, though he’d never been a morning bather, and sat staring at the bathroom tiles while the water got cold around him. There were chips on the corners of several, and long cracks webbing through a few others. Eventually he hauled himself out again with a sigh.

 

He’d barely rubbed himself down with a threadbare towel when there was a light knock on the door.

 

The clock on the wall in the main room showed just before six – hardly a social call then. Morse already knew who it was, of course; though he didn’t know how Thursday had got past the outer door. He wriggled into yesterday’s trousers, cursing as they took longer to pull on over damp skin. The knock hadn’t come again, and he wasn’t sure if Thursday would have given up.

 

But Thursday stood leaning against the opposite wall, staring down at the hat he was twisting in his hands. He looked up as Morse opened the door, his eyes lingering on Morse’s bare chest, and gave a tired smile. A _very_ tired smile.

 

“Thought you weren’t coming until ten?” Morse said, motioning Thursday in.

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Thursday walked past him, not touching, and stood inside Morse’s flat looking as though he wasn’t sure what he was doing there. “Did I wake you?”

 

“Hmm? No.” Morse looked down at himself. “I just – sorry, I was in the bath. I’ll find a –“ Thursday caught his hand.

 

“Morse, I’m not asking you to put on a shirt,” he said fondly.

 

Morse looked down at their joined hands, and then stepped in close. “I haven’t slept either,” he admitted. “Couldn’t.”

 

Thursday let out his breath in a huge sigh. “Don’t suppose you fancy a quick kip? I won’t be much use driving like this.”

 

Morse looked questioningly at his bed, it was only a single, rumpled and unmade; his tidying had not extended thus far. Thursday followed his gaze, and snorted. “We’ll manage to fit somehow, lad.”

 

They did, bunched close together out of necessity as well as choice. Morse in his trousers, Thursday with his jacket stripped off, arms around Morse as he spooned behind him. Thursday’s hand ran greedily across Morse’s chest, long slow strokes which were more about contact than desire, and he buried his face in Morse’s hair with a deep inhale.

 

Being held like this felt somewhat akin to the sun coming out after weeks of grey and cold; the astonishment at how good it felt, the slow warming as he turned to bask in it. All of the tension which had kept Morse up in the night seeped out of him, and the quiet rhythm of Thursday’s breathing lulled him into a state of drowsiness almost immediately.

 

“I missed you,” Morse murmured as he hovered on the edge of unconsciousness. If Thursday replied, he was already asleep.

 

\------

 

Waking again was a gradual, unhurried process, only spurred on at all by small ticklish touches to his stomach and sides. He made a low noise of complaint, and felt an amused puff of breath against the back of his neck.

 

“I know, I know. But we’d best be off, or we’ll never make it. Not to mention your mattress isn’t doing my back much good.”

 

Morse blinked his eyes open and sluggishly rolled onto his back, finding Thursday half-propped up on one elbow beside him. Thursday’s hand hovered in mid-air for a moment, and then came to rest gently on Morse’s stomach again, his fingers automatically starting a circling motion which drew a shy smile from Morse.

 

Thursday leaned down to kiss him, achingly sweetly, as though they’d been lovers for years.

 

“What do we need to do?” mumbled Morse, still not entirely awake.

 

“Well, I still need to go into the station for about an hour.” Thursday hesitated. “You’re welcome to join me, of course – I’ll need to have a chat with Bright, hand over my cases and file some paperwork.”

 

This seemed like Thursday trying to include him more. And Morse had as much right to be at the station as Thursday did. On the other hand, there was no way that standing there while Thursday discussed the fact that he was taking two weeks of leave to bugger his former bagman would be a comfortable situation.

 

“What are you going to talk about? The future?” Because yes, Morse wanted to be there for that.

 

“I’m not sure,” Thursday replied. “I only gave him the briefest outline of events over the phone, so I’ll have to give a full explanation. If he does want to discuss the situation further, then I’m planning to put him off until we get back – tell him we’re not currently in a fit state for it.” Morse hmmed thoughtfully. “I heard what you said, yesterday, Morse; I’ll not make decisions for you.”

 

Morse looked up at that, and couldn’t help the lopsided smile, even if it was a bit worried. He nodded. “Will I be of any help, if I’m there? Morale support?”

 

Thursday drew in a breath. “Honestly, lad, I think it might make it a bit…”

 

“Awkward?” Morse supplied, and Thursday sighed.

 

“Not half. If you don’t mind, you could go pick the rest of the stuff up from my house while I’m in – or we can do that together, after. I told Win I’d come back for it – kept her up half the night with my tossing and turning,” he admitted ruefully.

 

Morse smiled tightly, the reminder of Thursday sleeping with someone else – wife notwithstanding – not a welcome one. “Alright,” he said.

 

“Oh, that reminds me. Dr DeBryn rang ours last night – asked you to stop by. You’d just left – I told him I’d pass along the message.”

 

“Did he say what it was about?”

 

Thursday shook his head. “No. Might be he just wants to check on you.”

 

“I’m not a child, you know,” Morse grumbled.

 

“No, but-“ and here Thursday cupped his face and looked at him intently “-you gave him quite a scare, the other day. He said you were completely out of it after he took you back to his house; he would have taken you to the hospital but there wouldn’t have been much more they could have done for you. I think he’s gotten quite attached,” Thursday finished with a chuckle.

 

Morse found he was unable to laugh about it. “He’s been very kind,” he said hesitantly.

 

“You’re a funny one, Morse, a bit like marmite. You either rub people the wrong way or they-“ Thursday stopped abruptly, as though he’d said too much.

 

Morse wasn’t sure how to take that – it wasn’t exactly a compliment. True enough though – people did either tend to get along well with him or despise him. There had been the usual academic jealousies while he was up, and it was even worse as a police officer because he had so little in common with the people he worked with. Here at least he had Thursday, and Strange and DeBryn. Back at Carshall-Newtown there had been nobody.

 

“So, Dr DeBryn and then your house. And then I’ll pick you up again?”

 

“I’ll get someone to drop me off to meet you there.” Morse’s stomach rumbled loudly under Thursday’s hand. “Tell Win to give you some breakfast, she won’t mind.”

 

\-------------

 

Morse walked into the Radcliffe mortuary to find DeBryn stitching up a corpse. “Morse,” he greeted him cheerfully. “Just give me a minute to finish up with this chap.”

 

Morse turned to one side at first so that he didn’t have to see, but when the pathologist said he could wait in his office he didn’t protest. He took a carelessly folded newspaper and a pencil from the desk, and sat in the red leather armchair to do the crossword while he waited.

 

“Not one of yours,” DeBryn said as he came in ten minutes later. “Natural causes.”

 

“Doctor.” Morse nodded at him.

 

“How are you, Morse?” DeBryn’s eyes assessed him over his spectacles.

 

“Fine,” Morse replied automatically, somewhat unused to having anyone take such an aggressive interest in his wellbeing.

 

“Well of course you’re _fine_ ,” the doctor said dismissively. “We’ll just take that as read, shall we? How _else_ are you?”

 

Morse rather liked DeBryn’s dry wit – it put him in mind of one of his old professors. And he’d found DeBryn’s was never meanly meant. “Well enough, I suppose. I’m going on leave, with Thursday.”

 

“Yes, he mentioned it when I rang last night; I’m sorry I missed you, I just assumed you would be there.” Morse bit his tongue to keep himself from replying, but the doctor must have seen. “I hope you don’t think I’ve been too interfering, Morse, I was just worried about you.”

 

“I-“ Morse vacillated over what to say. “I appreciate you taking me into your house – looking after me,” he said clumsily. “And stitching me up the other day. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful…”

 

“Mmm, well at least you’re honest. Anyway, I have a going away present for you.” Morse’s face must have shown his fear that DeBryn was suggesting he might not be returning to the station, because the doctor clarified, “For your leave. I’m not sure how much you remember of the last time you drank this, so I thought you should give it another try.”

 

From beneath the desk he produced a brown paper bag; a quick peak inside showed a good quality bottle of brandy. Morse blushed as he remembered the taste of it on Thursday’s lips.

 

DeBryn obviously caught the blush as well. “Or maybe you do remember it. Make some more happy memories then.” The redness spread down Morse’s neck, and the doctor laughed, though not unkindly. “And if you’d be so kind as to pass this on to your inspector.” He handed over a package wrapped in brown paper and twine. “Tell him I thought it the most suited for him.”

 

“Thank you,” Morse said, still not quite recovered from the comment about the brandy.

 

“Well, I imagine you have places to be. Have a nice holiday, Morse.”

 

\---------

 

Mrs Thursday was in the front garden when he arrived at about quarter to eleven. She winced and put a hand to her back as she straightened from the flower bed, and took off her gardening gloves as she came to meet him on the path.

 

“Morning, love. How are you?”

 

“Well, thank you. How are you?”

 

She eyed him for a moment. “You got just as little sleep as my Fred, didn’t you? Honestly, _men_!” Morse wasn’t quite sure what that was supposed to mean, so stayed silent. “Just give me a minute to wash up, and I’ll show you where everything is. Would you like a cup of tea?”

 

They went through to the kitchen, pausing briefly so that she could remove her gardening shoes.

 

“Here, let me,” he said, and got down the cups and teapot. She regarded him fondly, and set about filling the kettle.

 

“You’ve had breakfast, haven’t you?” she asked, and he was torn between honesty and not wanting to inconvenience her. “Never mind, I already know that look. What would you like – eggs? Porridge? Or we’ve got some marmalade if you’d rather toast?”

 

He ended up with both scrambled eggs and marmalade on toast, which she put together for him while he carried Thursday’s bags and a hamper out to the car, carefully fitting them in alongside his record player and suitcase.

 

“Will you be alright without the car?” he asked as he re-joined her, staying in the kitchen with her rather than going through to the dining room. She watched him start to shovel food into his mouth with an amused, maternal expression, and he consciously made an effort to slow down and eat politely.

 

“Yes, I’ll be fine. It’s mostly for shopping, or taking the kids to things. And the neighbours have offered to take me anywhere I need to go.” Morse closed his eyes briefly. _The neighbours_. Did they already know? What would it look like, if Morse moved in here? “Ned and Lucy – they’re lovely.”

 

“Thursday said, yesterday, he said…“ Morse started uneasily. Mrs Thursday waited for a moment, and then poured the tea. She carried on as though he hadn’t stopped mid-sentence, until he finally gathered enough courage to say, “He said maybe I should come and live here.” The questions he really wanted to ask – _did you know about this? Are you alright with it?_ – would be an insult, because Thursday would never have mentioned it without talking about it with her.

 

“Yes, that’s what we were discussing the other day, wasn’t it?” She took a sip of her tea.

 

“I, uh, no-one actually told me that,” he muttered. She sighed.

 

“Fred’s making a right mess of this, isn’t he?” Startled, Morse looked up to find her watching him with empathy. And sadness.

 

“I’m not sure it’s possible not to,” he said, finally finding some humour in the situation.

 

“Mmm.” She was quiet for a moment, then, “You know, when he first told me I thought – well, you hear about it all the time in the papers, don’t you? Billionaire leaves family penniless to be with bonded love. Member of Royal family causes international incident by bonding with so and so. Statistics of the proportion of divorce caused by bonding. And I thought-“

 

She sniffed, and Morse suddenly realised she was on the edge of tears. He put his plate to the side. “Here,” he said, and laid a careful hand on her shoulder. “Inspector Thursday would never do that to you.” She gave a small nod and made a choked noise. Remembering the easy care she’d shown him of late, he carefully slid his arm around her in an inept half-hug.

 

She put the cup she was holding on the counter in a clatter, and launched herself into his arms, weeping terribly. Morse held on, awkwardly, and stared blindly out of the window.  God, he’d rather be chasing a killer – he’d have felt more useful! Very gently he stroked her back and told her that Inspector Thursday loved her and it would be alright. That just seemed to make it worse to start with, her sobbing growing louder, but for lack of any brighter ideas he kept going and eventually it seemed to soothe her.

 

After a few minutes she pulled away, retrieving a hankie from her sleeve and wiping her face “I’m so sorry,” she said unevenly. “I didn’t mean to-“

 

“No, not at all,” he reassured her. “I can’t imagine what-“ And then he stopped, and they smiled at each other a little, because of all the people who _could_ imagine what the other was going through, they weren’t a bad pair.

 

She blew her nose, loudly, and that made him smile again. “Let me make you another cup of tea,” he said, but she took the kettle gently from his hands.

 

“I like doing it,” she said simply, in response to his inquiring look.

 

He retrieved his plate from the side, and started on his eggs again, which had gone cold. “He loves you and the children more than anything,” Morse said after a moment. It hurt a little to say, but he thought she might need to hear it. “He’s told me so, many times.”

 

“He’s a good husband. And a wonderful father.” She fussed with the kettle, her back to him. “But that’s the point of a bond, isn’t it? That it makes you love the other person more than anything?”

 

Morse was utterly thrown for a moment, not knowing how to answer. “When I had one before it was like that,” he said slowly. “Because I didn’t love anyone else. But I can see – the world can see – that Thursday still loves you. It hasn’t just _stopped_.” Though for so many people it did. “And he’s not shy about telling people.” She’d turned her head a little, to listen to him. Morse blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m no good at this.

 

“I think you’re doing just fine, love. Endeavour.” She took the boiling kettle off the stove and filled the teapot again.

 

“I – the reason I mentioned it in the first place was because I don’t – I know that you’re both trying to make the best of a bad situation, and you’re being more than kind, but I can’t imagine being here, in your house. It wouldn’t feel right.”

 

She turned away from him again, putting both her hands on the counter and leaning forward against them. Her voice, when she spoke again, was weary and strained. “I like you for your own sake, Endeavour, I really do. Even if I didn’t, I’d like you for Fred’s. But in the end, if you aren’t in this house, _then he won’t be either_.”

 

Morse stopped mid-motion, feeling like he’d been hit over the head with a cricket bat. He couldn’t even deny it – not after neither of them had managed to sleep without the other beside them last night. Even if it got better once the bond settled, that would take a couple of months, and there was no guarantee. So either Thursday would have to sneak out like a thief every night, or they wouldn’t sleep.

 

Or Morse could be here.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t think-“

 

“God, don’t be sorry!” She pushed her empty tea cup away from her hard enough that it rattled in its saucer. Morse was quietly shocked at hearing her blaspheme. “As if it were your fault! It would be so easy to blame you, to be angry at you,” she added, voice rising. Then she took a deep breath, and her shoulders fell. “But it’s not your fault, and by all accounts you’ve been through enough in your life that you deserve a little happiness. Maybe I should be a bigger person about it – stand aside. But then what about the children, and where would I go?” Morse was horrified that she seemed on the brink of tears again.

 

“We’ll try it then,” he said hurriedly. “Try it and see. I just didn’t want you to have to – but I wasn’t thinking.”

 

She sighed, and turned with a watery smile. “Yes, we’ll see.” Just as she reached across to pat his hand, they heard the door of a car door slamming. “That must be Fred.”

 

Sure enough, there was the sound of keys finding the door unlocked, the creak of the door and Thursday’s whistle as he came in. “Morse?” he called. “Win?”

 

“We’re in the kitchen,” Morse said with a raised voice, and Thursday appeared in the doorway a moment later.

 

“Hello,” he said. “How are you two-“ Then he saw his wife’s face, and the fact that she’d obviously been crying. “Here, now, what’s got you upset?” He moved to pull her into his arms, and raised an eyebrow at Morse over her shoulder. Morse just shrugged, unable to explain. “Are you alright, love?”

 

She sniffed, told him she was fine, and gave him a tight squeeze before releasing him. “Endeavour’s had breakfast, he was just keeping me company.”

 

Thursday leaned in close to her, and asked quietly, “Do you not want me to go? We can cancel, I can-“ Morse felt bad for overhearing.

 

“No, don’t be silly. I’ll be fine!” Except that now Morse knew her a little better, he could easily put himself in her place and realise that what she was thinking was ‘Please stay. I’m afraid you’ll leave me forever.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shake off the unwanted empathy – it wouldn’t help anyone.

 

“I’ve packed the car,” he said awkwardly, trying to break the moment. Thursday turned to him with a scowl, and Morse realised it had sounded like he was trying to force the issue, to say that they couldn’t stay. Mrs Thursday’s smile was grateful though, and she came over to give him a tight hug.

 

“You take care of him,” she whispered in his ear.

 

“Of course,” he whispered back.

 

“I’ve made sandwiches,” she announced as she let go. “And there’s crisps, and fruit, and pork pies. Don’t go getting used to it,” she added to Thursday. “Although it’s almost lunch time now, really you might as well…”

 

“I’ve just had breakfast,” Morse said in laughing protest.

 

“And we’d best be on the road so we don’t have to drive too far in the dark,” Thursday added quietly. He glanced at Morse, and, getting the message, Morse went out into the hall. “Are you sure you’re alright-“ he heard before he was out of earshot.

 

He busied himself collecting coats and hats and gloves, and was well laden with them when the two of them emerged from the kitchen; Mrs Thursday wearing a small smile and her husband looking slightly reassured. “I’ll call you as soon as we get there,” Thursday said, taking the coat from Morse.

 

“You take care now, both of you, and have a lovely time,” she said. From the love and care in her voice you would never have guessed how upset she’d been twenty minutes earlier. Morse vowed to himself never to forget, never to take her sweetness for granted. “Here’s your lunch.” She handed him an extra bag to juggle.

 

“I’ll take that,” Thursday said, and grabbed it before Morse dropped it.

 

“Don’t let him eat all of it, half of it’s yours. You need a bit of feeding up!”

 

They said their goodbyes, and Thursday and Morse piled in the car. “I’ll drive, to start,” Thursday said. “You get some more sleep. Then we can switch.”

 

Sleep didn’t come so easily though, due to the chilled silence coming from the other half of the car. Thursday waited for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour – until they were clear of Oxford and out on the road – and then gruffly asked, “What was all that about then?”

 

“Nothing,” Morse answered slightly tersely, feeling annoyed that Thursday was annoyed.

 

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

 

They stayed silent for a few minutes, and then Morse said “What will it be like, when we’re all living together?” He saw Thursday look over sharply at the ‘when.’ “If I tell you something in confidence, will you immediately go and discuss it with your wife?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Well then.”

 

Morse knew he wasn’t making this easier – he could have just said Thursday’s wife was upset by them leaving but they had talked it through. Something about Thursday’s reaction was rubbing him the wrong way though; he perversely wanted to know Thursday wouldn’t blame him, even without knowing all the details.

 

Thursday pulled the car over in the next lay by, and they sat in stilted silence for a minute. “I don’t like it when my family hurt each other, Morse,” he said, finally, voice grim.

 

And Morse had to turn away, unable to help the expression of betrayal on his face. “I see,” he said shakily, wanting to lash out, to defend himself, but almost too hurt to try.

 

Thursday sighed. They sat listening to the engine thrumming. “I didn’t mean it like that,” Thursday said after a minute. “I know you’d not hurt her.”

 

“Surely I hurt her by merely existing,” Morse said, voice a little thick.

 

Thursday seemed to grasp his meaning. “That’s what you two talked about?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She’s never said that to me. Says she’s ‘fine’ a lot.” He shot Morse a wry look. “Now who does that remind me of?”

 

Morse stared stoically straight ahead.

 

“ _Christ_ , I can’t go five minutes with you, can I,” Thursday muttered under his breath. “Morse. Morse!” Morse finally looked round. “I’m sorry. I just don’t like Win crying.” This was a feeling Morse could understand.

 

“Nor do I, sir.” He went back to looking through the wind screen. “I didn’t say anything to hurt her, sir. At least, not – not any more than I do anyway.”

 

“Christ,” Thursday said again. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry, I was being an idiot.”

 

“That’s alright, sir, I understand.” But he was aware the tone of his voice clearly said otherwise.

 

Thursday pulled out, and they drove on. Morse was needed very little for navigating at this point, as Thursday had memorised the first few steps of the route, but he kept the map and directions on his lap anyway, and checked regularly. It was more for his peace of mind than Thursday’s, he hadn’t been on a trip like this in…

 

“You forgiven me yet?” Thursday asked a while later, glancing in the wing mirror as he indicated.

 

“There’s nothing to forgive. You were concerned about your wife.”

 

“That’s a no, then?”

 

“Mmm,” Morse said noncommittally. Thursday sighed.

 

They passed from main roads to smaller ones to main ones again. At around two, Thursday started to look for somewhere to pull over. “We’ll need petrol soon. And I could use the loo. You want lunch?”

 

They stopped at a motorway service station – shiny, new and silver - and ate at a picnic bench outside. “Win will kill me if I get crumbs all over the car again,” Thursday had commented.

 

It was a cloudy day, but not too cold; still, they huddled in their coats as they unwrapped their sandwiches. There were cheese and pickle ones, but also ham and tomato, and leftover roast beef. It was like a feast, spreading all the food out on the table and eating it all in any order they chose. Thursday found some jam tarts in the bag, and Morse had one of those before he ate anything else.

 

They got through most of lunch in silence, before Thursday put down the sandwich he was halfway through and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Morse-” he started.

 

“I know,” Morse said quickly. “I understand all your reasons, I really do.”

 

Thursday eyed him. “But you’re still mad at me.”

 

“Yes,” Morse said honestly, because the darkness bubbling up in his chest would allow for nothing less.

 

“Is there anything I can do about that?”

 

“Probably not.” He took an aggrieved bite out of a slice of pork pie. “What do you do when Mrs Thursday’s upset?”

 

“Oh, _now_ we’re talking about what we do with other people?” Thursday said dryly, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Do some chores. Give her a backrub. Buy her flowers.” He moved his hand so that his little finger bumped against Morse’s on the table. “Say I’m sorry, and mean it.”

 

Morse snorted, wishing that he could be more immune to Thursday’s words. _Be honest_ , ran through his head. “I, uh,“ he cleared his throat, “I was just… Why did you? Just assume?”

 

Thursday sighed. “I can’t say a whole lot of rational through went into it, lad. There were two people in the room and one of them had been crying; my brain stopped working at about that point.” Morse nodded, but said nothing. Thursday sighed again. “So… how about that backrub?”

 

That surprised a laugh out of Morse, and a fleeting smile. “Maybe later,” he said, startled back into good humour.

 

Thursday’s gaze heated a little. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said in a deep voice. “I do hate wasting a good apology.”

 

\------

 

Morse did manage to sleep after that for a couple of hours, and Thursday woke him at another stopping point so that they could switch over. It was dark now, and required a lot more awareness of where they were heading; even on the main roads. Once they got down to the little fiddly ones an hour or two later, they were constantly doubting whether they’d gone the right way.

 

“I was really hoping we’d make it before it got dark,” Thursday grumbled, but Morse found he couldn’t regret the time they’d spent napping together in the morning.

 

Eventually they found the way, and, after stopping to ask for directions, the stone cottage they would be occupying.

 

“Almost seven,” Thursday grunted as he stood and stretched after getting out of the car. “Could have been worse. I can’t be bothered to cook – want to unpack and find the pub?”

 

They went to find the pub first, in the end, in case they stopped serving early. The one they’d gone past on the main street, The Bee and Barrow, was a small, friendly looking place with a few locals in it.

 

“You still doing supper?” Thursday asked at the bar, and was given a nod and pointed towards the chalk board off to the side. Fish and chips, or steak and kidney pie.

 

“I’ll have the fish and chips,” Morse said when Thursday looked at him.

 

“Pint?”

 

“Please.”

 

“Alright. I’ll see if they’ve got a phone so I can give Win a quick call.”

 

When the barman brought the food over he lingered for a minute. “We don’t get many holiday makers, this time of year.”

 

“We’re staying at John Collin’s place – he’s a friend,” Thursday said in an amiable tone. “Needed a bit of time off, and this was the only time of the year I could take it.”

 

“Ah well, it’s supposed to be clear the next few days, and it’s a beautiful place, if I say so myself. You and your son have a nice evening, now.” He went back behind the bar.

 

Morse covered the lower half of his face with his hands. His shoulders shook slightly.

 

“Well,” Thursday said gruffly. “It’s not like we haven’t all been thinking it. I’m under no illusions. A spry young thing like you, and an old fart like me…”

 

Morse couldn’t help the choked laugh that escaped him. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling himself go red with the effort not to laugh again, “But your face!”

 

“That’s right,” Thursday grumbled. “Have a laugh at the old man’s expense!” But the second of doubt and shame in his eyes had faded, so Morse let his own merriment shine through.

 

The food was excellent, and the ale even better – Morse hadn’t known what to expect but the local brew was a pleasant surprise.

 

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Thursday told him when he saw Morse eyeing the bar again. “We’ve still got to lug everything out of the car tonight.”

 

Morse groaned, but got up willingly enough.

 

They had a moment of panic when Thursday couldn’t find the key under the mat – luckily the owner of the pub had lent them a torch, which also helped immensely with then finding the key _hole_.

 

The cottage smelled damp and musty when they got in, and the lights flickered worryingly for a minute when they were turned on before settling. Thursday had a quick look around. “I’ll figure out the heating, you bring the bags in.”

 

“Alright,” Morse agreed, and went back out to the car. By the fourth trip he had everything, and Thursday was making noises of success.

 

“We could have laid a fire in, but it’s a bit late to start one now. We can sort ourselves out a bit more in the morning. I don’t know if I fancy unpacking tonight, either,” Thursday said, considering the bags.

 

“Let’s leave it then.” Morse undid his suitcase just enough to pull out a small bag of necessities – toothpaste, toothbrush, razor and shaving cream. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached a hand in and dug around until he found his pyjama bottoms, foregoing the top. Then he put the whole lot down on the chair and tried to decide if Thursday had been suggesting they go to bed or not.

 

“We should pick up some more food in the morning,” Thursday said as he came back out of the kitchen, and stopped as he saw Morse hovering uncertainly. “Tired, are you?”

 

It was such a loaded question that Morse didn’t even know where to start. The simplest answer was yes, because he didn’t think he could read a book and keep his eyes open. But if Thursday was covertly asking if he didn’t want to do anything else, then they were entering whole new realms of territory.

 

He’d hesitated long enough that Thursday made it over to him. “If you get ready for bed, I could give you that backrub I owe you?” he said in a low voice. Morse swallowed hard, and picked up his things again.

 

“Alright,” he said, his own voice rather more high-pitched that he would have preferred.

 

He found Thursday making up the bed once he was finished in the bathroom, and he stood in the doorway and watched. It was bigger than a double – a queen, maybe – with a solid wooden frame and headboard. Simple but sturdy, in the same neutral colours as all of the furniture in the house. Morse thought the cottage suited Thursday to a tee.

 

Thursday finished with the sheet. “Here, you take over. I’ve taken everything out of the cupboard.” Morse looked where he pointed to find further bedlinen on the dressing table, and went to grab the pillowcases.

 

“I hate making the bed,” he grumbled to himself as he worked. Pillows were alright, but then there was the duvet cover. He looked at it and sighed. At least he hadn’t had to do the sheet.

 

The bed was made by the time Thursday came back, and he stepped up behind Morse with an approving noise. “Thanks, love,” Thursday said as he slung his arms around Morse’s waist, and Morse knew he’d only said it absent-mindedly, _knew_ it didn’t mean anything…

 

Thursday tugged him backwards a little until he leant back into the man’s solid, firm chest. For the first time since the morning Morse felt himself relax, felt the cares melt away again.

 

“Hello,” murmured Thursday in his ear.

 

“Hello,” he said back, feeling slightly foolish.

 

“On the bed on your front then, don’t want you angry at me for longer than can be helped.”

 

Morse tipped his head back to give Thursday a fond look, because the anger had faded hours ago, but pulled back the covers and lay down as directed.

 

“Hang on, I’ll just grab-“ Thursday creaked his way down the stairs, and then creaked his way back up again. “Sorry about that,” he said, slightly out of breath, “Massage oil.” Morse opened his mouth to ask why on earth Thursday had brought massage oil, or anything that could be used as such, when the answer struck him rather forcibly and he flushed bright red. He hadn’t even _thought_ to pack something like that _._ “How’s the bed?”

 

“Cold,” Morse croaked, and buried his face in a pillow.

 

“It’ll warm up soon enough,” said Thursday, and Morse was unable not to read into that. “Shove over a bit.”

 

Morse shuffled over to the middle of the bed so that Thursday could sit beside him. “No one’s ever given me a massage before,” he offered after a moment.

 

“No? You’ve been missing out then.” There was the sound of something opening – a bottle or container - and then Thursday’s hands rubbing together briskly. “Just relax, Endeavour,” he said softly, and then his hands started on Morse’s shoulders.

 

It felt – Morse didn’t know how to describe how it felt. Like the hands were hugging every part of his back, lavishing attention on parts of him that had never received it. “Tense as a board, you are,” Thursday remarked after a moment, “Though I’m not surprised, the way you take care of yourself.”

 

Morse turned his head on the pillows, so that he could see Thursday out of the corner of his eye. Thursday’s face was creased in concentration, his lips slightly parted, his eyes sweeping across Morse’s skin at the same time as his hands did. “Hmm,” he said, though he couldn’t remember what the question was.

 

“Oh, you like this, do you?” There was a smile now, and Morse felt his own lips twitch in response. “Good.” The hands continued, smoothing their way down his spine, careful not to tickle over his sides. As they swept over the base of his spine, right above his pyjama bottoms, Morse’s hips dipped the tiniest of fractions. Thursday didn’t mention it, which Morse was obscurely glad about, but a minute later he did it again, and got the same response.

 

“Is there anything else no one’s ever done?” Thursday asked huskily, an indeterminable amount of time later. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was asking.

 

“I kissed a boy once, in school,” Morse told him drowsily, feeling warm and safe.

 

“Did you now?”

 

“Mmm. It was nice. Good. So good,” and the last was an approving croon at Thursday rubbing gently at a knot in his right shoulder. “But then he left, and I didn’t like any of the other boys.”

 

“Just kissing then?” Thursday’s voice had come closer, nearly on top of him, and Morse opened his eyes a slit to find him kneeling with his face low, watching Morse keenly.

 

“Mmm. Just kissing.” Another few caresses from Thursday, and Morse roused himself to ask, “You?”

 

“A bit more than kissing, back in the day,” Thursday said a little roughly. “Long time ago now though.”

 

And the thought should have provoked curiosity, but Morse’s mind was too pleasantly hazy to care. “Mmm.”

 

“Morse?” Morse tried to summon up the energy for an inquiring hum, but didn’t quite make it. The hands on his back stilled for a moment, then became even more gentle in their motions, stroking up and down, and up…

 

\-----------

 

It was Morse who woke first the next morning, stirring to find Thursday sleeping peacefully beside him. He was still lying on his stomach, and he rolled his shoulders once, twice, to feel the luxurious looseness of the muscles there. The faint light of dawn glimmered through the folds of the curtains, and a smile slipped over his face without any need to censure it.

 

He slipped quietly out of bed to go to the toilet, and then spent a few minutes hovering at the doorway to the bedroom again. He felt strangely apprehensive about getting back into bed with Thursday, although he couldn’t have said why. He eventually turned away, deciding Thursday needed the sleep considering how little they’d gotten on Sunday night. His body fought him on the point, insisting that lying beside Thursday would be _wonderful_ , but he’d already lain abed for almost ten hours and his head won the battle.

 

He crept downstairs, treading on the outside edges of each step and wincing every time one creaked. He paused at the bottom, but didn’t hear movement from above. Feeling reassured, he moved through to the pile of bags and boxes they’d left in the living room.

 

Setting aside Thursday’s cases, he moved his record player to the side table and checked it had survived the journey in good condition. He was a bit worried that Thursday’s tolerance for opera would prove limited, but then they were going to have to come to some sort of compromise if they would be living together.

 

Next he hauled the food hamper through to the kitchen, and started to take out tins of baked beans and tuna, jars of chutney and jam, biscuits, teabags, a bag of apples, carrots, a cauliflower, rice, potatoes... His eyebrows rose at the sheer amount of food Mrs Thursday – he was presuming it was Mrs Thursday – had packed. This could feed them for a month!

 

Near the bottom he found a card with a picture of flowers on the front; opening it he found a well wish signed Win and Joan and Sam. Even if Sam’s name was scrawled a bit haphazardly, it was still there. Morse set it on the kitchen table, and started sorting things into cupboards.

 

Thursday came down just as he was finishing; Morse had heard his footsteps upstairs, and then the groan of the staircase. He’d taken the time to get dressed in trousers and shirt, but the shirt wasn’t buttoned and his hair was still untamed from sleep.

 

“Morning,” Morse said, shifting from foot to foot in his pyjama bottoms. He took the emptied hamper down off the table and nodded towards the card. “Look.”

 

“Morning yourself.” Thursday picked it up and read it, and a smile broke over his face. “I should give them another call. Well,” he corrected on looking up and seeing the clock, “I should give Win a call.”

 

Morse nodded. “I think the phone was in the hall.”

 

Thursday wandered back the way he’d come, and Morse took the opportunity to take his suitcase upstairs. He shaved quickly, and then dragged his clothing out of the case and arranged it haphazardly in the cupboard and chest of drawers. After a moment’s thought, he considered that Thursday also needed to put his clothes in there, and arranged his things more tidily.

 

“Morse? Morse,” came Thursday’s voice from downstairs.

 

He thudded down the stairs, and saw Thursday holding out the phone to him. “Win’s asking for you.” A bit surprised, Morse took the receiver, and saw Thursday go to retrieve his own bags.

 

“Hello?” he said uncertainly.

 

“Endeavour! How are you? You got there alright then? Fred said the weather was good.” A little bemused, he listened while Mrs Thursday rambled on for a minute, seeming to require no input from him. “Are you alright, love,” she eventually asked again.

 

“Yes, I – I’m fine.”

 

“Well, that’s good. And you’ve got enough food?”

 

He snorted. “I think you packed enough for an army. Thank you for lunch yesterday, by the way, it was delicious.”

 

“Fred said you liked the tarts.” She was quiet for a minute, nothing but the sound of her breathing, and Morse tried to figure out if he was supposed to say something. “And you’re alright?”

 

“I’m really alright,” he reiterated, unsure why she thought he might not be.

 

“Alright then. You have a nice day, and tell Fred I said the same for him. Goodbye, love.”

 

“Bye,” he said, still slightly bemused, and listened to the dial tone.

 

He went upstairs to get dressed, and couldn’t decide if he was being silly about taking off his pyjamas in front of Thursday. His hands hesitated on the tied strings of his bottoms for too long, and Thursday reached out and _yanked_ on the ends of them in passing. Morse yelped embarrassingly, holding the bottoms up with both hands, and Thursday gave him a laughing look as he headed for the door. “I’ll be downstairs, lad.”

 

Problem solved, Morse got dressed and pulled a jumper on over his shirt. He fluffed his hair in the mirror, then decided there was nothing to be done with it.

 

“What do you fancy for breakfast, Morse?” Thursday called as Morse started down the stairs. “We’ve got… beans. Or we can go out. Buy some milk and eggs?”

 

Morse came through to the cold tile of the kitchen floor, glad that this time he had his socks on. “Beans,” he said firmly, ravenous.

 

Thursday hefted the tin. “Beans it is. Find a pan, will you?” He found a tin opener while Morse clattered through cupboards. “Looks like a nice day. Thought we might go exploring a bit?”

 

“That sounds good,” Morse said distractedly as he rummaged.

 

“Maybe the pub for lunch?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Then a spot of fishing?”

 

“Ye-“ Morse looked up as the words registered, and found Thursday smiling at him in amusement. “Perhaps not,” he said, slightly primly, and the smile widened into a grin. Morse drew out a saucepan in triumph, and they got the baked beans going on the stove.

 

While they waited, Morse filled the kettle and started it heating, then went back to the cupboard he’d found mugs in.

 

Breakfast was a simple affair – splitting the contents of the tin between two bowls. It was an odd meal, unaccompanied by toast or anything else, but there was no one there to scold them for it, and Thursday didn’t seem to mind.

 

Afterwards they walked along to the grocer’s they’d seen just on from the pub the night before. They bought bread and eggs, butter and milk and cheese. “From a farm just outside of town, fresh yesterday,” the woman behind the counter said as they picked up the eggs. “We’ve got some of their pies, too.” These were duly inspected, and Morse picked out a chicken and ham pie for their tea.

 

Thursday had a quick chat with her about how to get down to the seaside, and where would make a nice walk, and then their purchases were wrapped up and bagged and they took them back to the house.

 

“Ready then,” asked Thursday. “Best take a scarf, too, it’ll be windy by the sea.”

 

It was, but it was glorious too; the sun shining on the water and the sound of waves lapping against the sand and rocks making Morse feel unexpectedly young again. Thursday looped an arm through his as they walked along, and gave him an inscrutable look when Morse glanced at him in askance.

 

“It’s my leave, I can do as I like,” he said, and Morse gave him an uncertain smile and didn’t say anything. He didn’t _mind_ , after all, he’d just wondered if Thursday cared if anyone saw them.

 

They wondered back through the town then, and along the small quay, accompanied by the shrill squawk of seagulls. “Bloody menace,” Thursday said with a glance upwards, but he smiled at Morse after he said it.

 

Along to the same pub as yesterday for lunch, and the menu hadn’t changed since then but the owner said he could do them sandwiches instead. William Peters, his name was. He shouted the order through a hatch, and then came to have a chat with them while they waited. Perils of the slow time of year, Morse thought, getting bored when there were no customers.

 

Neither of them mentioned anything specific, but Mr Peters had sharp enough eyes, and, after the fourth time Morse realised too late the man had seen them touching hands without thinking, his face was gradually contorting into a scowl.

 

“We’re newly bonded,” Morse explained in a rush. “That’s why we’re out here.” Thursday nodded his agreement, following Morse’s lead.

 

“Oh,” said Peters, face smoothing out. “That’s why then,” and he nodded to Thursday’s hand. After a moment, Morse realised that it was Thursday’s wedding ring he meant, he must have thought they were here doing… exactly what they were doing, actually. But now with sanctioned approval rather than a sleazy affair.

 

“It’s all a bit new,” Thursday said apologetically.

 

Mr Peters grinned then. “Oh, I remember what that’s like. My Emily and me, the days we had…” He trailed off looking wistful, then added, “She passed two years ago.” They gave their condolences, and he nodded. “Used to be a lot more fun, running this place, when she was here. I could never leave it, though. I feel like part of her is still around, somewhere.”

 

There was a vague shout from next door, and he ambled off to get their lunch.

 

“He seems nice enough,” said Thursday quietly, and Morse nodded. They were left alone to eat their food and drink their ale, and Morse found his fingers twitching for a pen that wasn’t there. Somehow, doing the crossword had become associated in his mind with Thursday and lunch.

 

“We’ll stop off at the newsagents on the way back then, shall we?” Thursday asked with a smirk, and Morse gave him a withering look.

 

Then, “Yes, actually,” he admitted.

 

They lingered over their pint, and then found the newsagents down the street. Morse bought a newspaper, and Thursday some tobacco.

 

“You don’t mind my smoking, do you?” he asked as they left the shop, and something about that made everything hit home for Morse. Detective Inspector Thursday would never have asked Detective Constable Morse if he minded him smoking, he’d just gone ahead and done it. But Thursday was asking him now. “Morse?”

 

Morse realised he’d stopped in the middle of the street. “No, no, it’s fine,” he said hurriedly, walking on. “I mean, I’ve always hated the smell before, but now it’s… I mean, it’s your smell, so I like it.” He would have regretted saying so much, but a short glance at Thursday’s face showed him looking slightly stunned and pleased.

 

They walked out of town a bit before heading back, and it was around three by the time they arrived at the cottage again. “My knees aren’t what they used to be,” Thursday complained as he collapsed on the sofa.

 

“Tea?” Morse asked, heading to the kitchen.

 

“You’re a life saver.”

 

When he came back out Thursday was already fiddling with his pipe. “You go on and read, or put your records on, whatever you fancy.”

 

Morse was struck by a thought. “Oh, I have something for you.” He went to his coat, and pulled out the package from DeBryn. “Here.” He held it out to Thursday, who looked taken aback.

 

“I didn’t get you anything,” he said guiltily. “Didn’t even think. I’m sorry, lad, I’ll-“

 

“No,” Morse interrupted. “It’s not from me. It’s from Dr DeBryn. He said… It would be the best one for you? Something like that.”

 

“Did he? Oh!” Thursday’s face lit with understanding. “Give it here then.” As he took it, he mumbled, “That was the same horrible feeling I get when I forget an anniversary. Could we just agree no presents?”

 

Morse supressed a smile, and said very seriously, “No presents.” He wouldn’t have half a clue what to get for Thursday anyway, and couldn’t imagine Thursday faring much better with him.

 

He went upstairs to fetch a book, unwilling to test the opera out so early in the day, and when he came back downstairs he was surprised to find Thursday holding a book of his own, switching on the lamp beside the sofa before cracking it open.

 

“I didn’t know you read, sir,” and then cursed himself for the way that had sounded. “I mean - I didn’t mean…” he said, tongue-tied.

 

“I know what you meant, Morse.” He held out the book so that Morse could see the title, ‘A Key to Understanding Life Bonds.’ It was a much older title than the one Morse had recently read in the library, though a new edition. More core knowledge and basics, simply explained. DeBryn had been right; it was well suited to Thursday.

 

“Oh,” Morse said softly, and sat beside him.

 

Thursday eyed him warily for a minute. “Thought I could actually do with understanding some of this stuff, rather than just stumbling around like an idiot.”

 

Morse ducked his head in a nod, and opened his own book. His back stayed ramrod straight, and after Thursday turned the first page he couldn’t help but say, “You can ask me about it, if there’s anything you need to know? I’ve read a bit. A lot.”

 

Without looking up, Thursday reached out and laid a hand on his knee. “No,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t ask you about it. It was hurting you every time that I did; took me long enough to realise it. And some of the things I want to know are definitely things that you don’t want to answer.”

 

Morse considered protesting, saying that of course he would answer things if Thursday asked, but in the end he said nothing. Thursday was right; he did find it hard to talk about the bond – this one or the last.

 

Morse slowly leaned sideways until his arm was resting against Thursday’s. Still without looking away from his book, Thursday shifted under him, bringing his arm up until it was behind Morse’s shoulders, naturally pulling him in tighter. Morse adjusted himself as well, sliding sideways and down a little so that his head was on Thursday’s shoulder. Thursday made an approving noise, and then turned his head to press a kiss to Morse’s hair before going back to his reading. Morse couldn’t help his smile.

 

Three quarters of an hour seemed to be Thursday’s limit when it came to reading, however, and he nudged Morse aside to go and dig out a portable radio he’d brought with him. “Do you mind?” he asked Morse, and Morse shrugged, steeling himself for some truly horrible music.

 

It seemed Thursday listened to shows on the radio though, rather than music; the news, sports, The Archers, a comedy program, and while Morse found it irritably distracting to start with, he soon tuned it out.

 

When Thursday switched off the radio, Morse put his book aside with a slight yawn. “How did things go with Bright? I forgot to ask yesterday.”

 

Thursday scratched his head. “Well enough, I suppose. Difficult to say, with him. I don’t understand that man at all, sometimes.” And here again was a privileged, _inside_ talk, the kind Thursday would never have had with his bagman. “I told him the bond had been there for few weeks, but that we’d not realised and been ignoring it due to ongoing concerns. That it kicked in properly over the weekend and we’d been ordered off work by a doctor. He said he had a cousin who has a bond, but I couldn’t work out if that meant he approved or not.”

 

“Did he say anything about when we get back? If, ah, if I can stay your-“

 

“Morse.”

 

“Right. Right, of course not. I knew that.”

 

“I didn’t ask that,” Thursday said compassionately, “because I already knew the answer. And I didn’t ask anything else, because I didn’t want to talk about it with him before I talked it over with you.” Morse folded his arms across his chest a little defensively. “Do you want to talk about it now?” Thursday asked carefully and Morse shook his head.

 

“Not now,” he said, slightly sadly, and Thursday reached across to thread his fingers through Morse’s.

 

“Alright then. Suppose I should go and see about cooking us some dinner.” He gave Morse’s hand a quick squeeze, and got up. “It’ll be about 40 to 50 minutes,” he called through from the kitchen a minute later. “Carrots alright for you? And mash?”

 

Morse went to hover in the doorway. “Yes, that’s fine. Need a hand?”

 

“Not unless you have a pressing need to peel potatoes. Not that your company isn’t welcome, mind.”

 

“I might go and have a bath, then.”

 

Thursday looked up at him and smiled easily, but his eyes were dark and interested. “Right then.”

 

“Right,” Morse said, dry mouthed.

 

He ran the bath as hot as he could stand it, and pictured Thursday coming to join him. He knew he wouldn’t; knew that Thursday wouldn’t spring him on that even if the he wasn’t cooking their dinner. But the image didn’t leave his mind. Morse ran a lazy, soapy hand down his chest, and gave his interested prick an absent minded stroke. Then he set about scrubbing the rest of himself, slightly more assiduously than usual, and managed not to get soap in his eyes while washing his hair.

 

He ventured downstairs again, pink and clean, and found Thursday had picked up the bonding book again at the kitchen table. “Just waiting for the potatoes to boil,” Thursday said as Morse walked around to join him.

 

Morse draped himself over Thursday’s back, sliding his hands down his chest. “Hello,” he said happily.

 

“Hello,” Thursday said, bemused. “What’s got you in such a good mood then?” Over his shoulder, Morse read ‘In the first 48 hours post sustained initiation, prolonged contact is a necessity, and within 72 hours sexual-‘

 

“Nothing,” Morse said, still cheerful, and released Thursday to go and check on the vegetables.

 

Dinner was good – the pie excellent, the mash buttery and perfect, the carrots… well, _carrots_. Thursday had lit a single, small candle in the centre of the table, and actually blushed when Morse noticed it, muttering a gruff excuse about bad lighting.

 

Good though the meal was, Morse barely tasted a bite of it, only feeling the flavours come through in bursts when he concentrated specifically on the food. Most of the time he stared openly at Thursday; at his eyes, his lips, his hands. He would have felt awkward, except that Thursday was doing the same to him, eyeing him far more hungrily than the food.

 

Eventually Morse put his knife and fork down, plate still half full, and said he couldn’t eat another bite.

 

“No? Well then. I might go for a bath myself,” Thursday said with contrived casualness. Morse nodded, wide eyed, and watched Thursday go upstairs.

 

He scraped all the leftovers into a dish and covered them, ready to go into the fridge. Then he walked back and forth across the kitchen in an agony of nervous anticipation. Thursday was in the bath right now, washing himself. _Touching_ himself. And Morse was fairly sure it was explicitly understood on all sides that they would be having sex after that.

 

 _God_.

 

He did the washing up, and almost broke a plate as it slipped through nerveless fingers. Then he actually broke a glass, at which point he left the rest for the morning.

 

He could call someone. Who? Definitely not Mrs Thursday. DeBryn? No. One of his university friends? He didn’t have their numbers with him, and what would he say?

 

Morse creaked his way upstairs, conscious of every noise, and went into the bedroom. He turned the covers down, and closed the curtains. He turned the bedside lamp on, and the main light off. Maybe he should have brought up the candle? No, that was ridiculous.

 

He took off his clothes and changed into his pyjama bottoms, then took them off again. Put his trousers back on. Changed his mind _again_ ; pyjama bottoms. He was faintly aware that this was ridiculous too.

 

He was still stood there, arms wrapped around himself in a misery of indecision, when Thursday walked in with nothing but a towel around his waist. He took in Morse’s state with one look, and opened his arms. “Come here, Morse.”

 

It was the first time Morse had felt Thursday’s bare chest against his own, and the press of all that skin felt incredible. Thursday was still damp from his bath, and Morse breathed in the scent of soap and warm skin. “What’s got you all worked up, hmm?” Thursday asked, somewhat rhetorically, and stroked his fingers over Morse’s hair. Morse pressed his face against the side of Thursday’s so that he didn’t have to look at him. “Alright, lad, alright.”

 

Thursday just held him for a minute, and Morse’s breathing gradually slowed, leaving him feeling silly. He pulled back, allowing himself a moment to properly appreciate the sight of the older man in just a towel. At Thursday’s slightly raised eyebrow he felt himself blush, and to cover his embarrassment he leaned in to crush his lips hard against Thursday’s. Thursday moved against him easily, touching his tongue to Morse’s lips. Instinct took over, and Morse deepened the kiss urgently, suddenly possessed with an all-consuming urge to _take_ and _explore_.

 

Thursday kissed him back, but slower, trying to force Morse to a different rhythm. Morse made a low, griping sound as Thursday pushed gently on his shoulders, stopping the kiss. He stared at Thursday, panting, desperate.

 

“There’s no hurry, Endeavour. No hurry.”

 

Morse wasn’t of a mind to listen to him, reaching for where the towel was tucked in at the waist to pull it free. Thursday’s hand grabbed his, pulled it away. “Morse. Morse!”

 

He looked up almost blindly, feeling subsumed by a wave of terror and need. “Sir,” he managed, finally, feeling as though his voice had stopped working properly.

 

A hand stroked his face, and he leaned into it desperately. “Christ, _look_ at you,” Thursday said in a deep voice. Then, “Why don’t we try what we did last night again, hmm? You liked that?”

 

Morse blinked, and tried to focus, but couldn’t take his eyes away from Thursday’s chest. He leaned forward and _licked_ , then pressed open mouthed kisses again Thursday’s collarbone and throat. He felt the vibration of Thursday moaning as he ran his hands over the man’s hip bones above the towel, and felt vicious triumph flare hot in his belly.

 

“Fuck it,” Thursday swore, and tumbled them both onto the bed in two steps. 

 

They rolled over each other, fighting for dominance, plundering each other’s mouths, hands everywhere. Thursday finally pinned Morse under him, Morse practically snarling as he bucked against him, then moaning at the friction. “Stay. Bloody. _Still_. Morse.”

 

And finally Morse did, easing back into the mattress, allowing Thursday’s weight to press him down. “That’s it,” Thursday’s voice murmured in his ear. “That’s it. Turn over now. Turn over.” Thursday lifted off him just enough to allow him to roll onto his stomach, and then leaned his full weight on him again. Morse murmured happily. “Alright, now, stay where you are.”

 

Thursday pulled back, dropping kisses down Morse’s back as he went; it felt like he was marking every vertebra. As he got closer to the base of the spine Morse shivered with every kiss, feeling overly sensitive and overwound. When he reached the line of Morse’s pyjamas, Thursday gripped the waist and gently tugged. Morse obligingly lifted his hips, and Thursday eased them down to tangle around his knees.

 

“There,” he whispered, and kissed the same spot again before moving further down. As he kissed over Morse’s tailbone, his chin was brushing lower, and Morse’s breath was already hitching in frenzied anticipation. From there, he glided his lips down across one of Morse’s arse cheeks, a smooth, endless stroke which had Morse shuddering uncontrollably. “Oh, lad,” he said hoarsely as he knelt up, and Morse couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop-

 

Warm, slick hands landed on his shoulders, and Morse’s body snapped out of its fixated circuit. He let out a groan as Thursday followed familiar motions from the night before, half massage, half caress. His muscles unwound a little, and he let out a calmer hum of pleasure.

 

“That’s it,” Thursday murmured again. Morse turned his face to look at him, as he had yesterday, but instead of care and concentration there was tightly controlled desire. Fingers swept down hard along Morse’s ribs, and he wriggled slightly with pleasure, sighing at the feel of it. His gaze dropped to see that the towel had fallen open during their wrestling, lying in a crumpled heap behind Thursday. _Naked_ , his mind supplied helpfully, and seconds after that Thursday’s hands stroked down over his buttocks.

 

Morse rocked into the mattress with a sharp gasp, pleasure surging through him. “So bloody sensitive,” muttered Thursday, but the gritty tone of his voice suggested it was a good thing. He did it again, and this time Morse whimpered slightly, unable to suppress the noise. “You have no idea, do you,” Thursday said roughly, and then his hands were cupping and squeezing, and spreading Morse’s cheeks to expose him to the air. Morse buried his face deep into the pillow to muffle the noise he made, fisted his hands in the sheets and tried desperately not to come.

 

The hands let go, and it was such a shocking loss that Morse almost _whined_ with it. “Hold on,” said Thursday, “I’m just-“ There was the noise of something dropping down the side of the bed, Thursday swearing, and then his hands were running over Morse’s flanks again, so slick that they practically skidded over his skin. “Morse, I’m just going to-“ Then he was spreading Morse’s legs, moving behind him and kneeling with one knee in between Morse’s own. The bed stopped shifting, and his hands came to rest at the crease between buttock and thigh. They shifted upwards, thumbs tugging very gently at skin, running up to his tailbone and then higher, to Morse’s disappointed sigh.

 

Back down to his thighs, running upwards again, and this time the thumbs dipped into the crease between his buttocks. Morse’s breath caught and his hips slammed forwards. Thursday stopped moving, his thumbs holding Morse open slightly – exposed. The speed of Morse’s breathing increased until he was panting as he realised that Thursday was _looking_ at him. Fuck.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Thursday said hoarsely, and the tip of one of his thumbs slid down and rubbed casually across Morse’s arsehole. Morse gave a muffled shout into the pillows. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you; I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you, Endeavour, since your tousled hair and your ridiculous fucking theories which were always fucking right.” He punctuated every few words with another slide of his thumb against Morse, ignoring his squirming. “I’ve wanted you so much,” and the tip of his thumb rubbed a little harder, slipped against the muscle just enough to dip inside.

 

Morse went still, absolutely still, and his heart started hammering like crazy in his chest. He didn’t know whether to move towards Thursday or away. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

 

Thursday lowered himself a little, so that his weight was resting on Morse’s thigh. His other hand began to gently squeeze and stroke Morse’s arse.

 

“I’m not going to do more than this tonight, Endeavour,” he said in a low, burning voice. “I swear it.” Morse finally managed to swallow. “Now relax. _Relax_.”

 

Slowly Morse unclenched his muscles, made himself sink back down into his previous position. “That’s it. That’s it.”

 

The thumb-tip started gently and carefully rubbing at his hole again, and this time Morse’s moan was out in the open, where it echoed in the room. He shoved his face back into the pillow again, embarrassed - despite the far more intimate things happening elsewhere.

 

“You think I don’t want to hear you?” Thursday asked, voice husky. “You think I haven’t been dreaming about the noises you might make? Fuck, Endeavour, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for weeks. And you strut around stubbornly, looking at me all wide eyed and vulnerable, and I just want to slam you over the nearest desk and take you until you scream.” Morse shuddered, writhing slightly as Thursday’s thumb moved on to circling. Again and again, over and over, and he’d never known he was so fucking _sensitive_ there.

 

“Jesus, Morse, you have no idea how you look. No idea.” The thumb left, but before Morse could do more than draw breath to complain it was replaced by two fingers, rubbing and spreading and pushing lightly. He moaned again, and this time couldn’t stop moaning, and Thursday’s other hand gripping his arse wasn’t enough to keep him still any more as he pushed urgently against the sheets.

 

“Oh, God,” he said wretchedly, “Oh _, fuck_!”

 

And he came like that, with Thursday muttering dirty secrets and his fingers digging into Morse’s arse.

 

He lay limp and spent afterwards, still making soft noises as Thursday continued to pet his arse, though more gently than before. He had no idea how long that might have continued, but after a couple of minutes he squirmed in discomfort at the wet spot he was in. “Alright, alright, let’s get you over then, hmm?” Thursday tapped his side lightly, and Morse rolled onto his back in the middle of the bed.

 

Thursday looked wrecked, his pupils dilated so far they were practically black, his hair slicked back with sweat. Morse ran his eyes over Thursday, and then frowned. “I haven’t even _touched_ you,” he said in complaint, and his own voice was barely recognisable.

 

“Oh, trust me, Morse, you’ve been doing _plenty_ for me,” Thursday said hoarsely. He lowered himself against Morse, his hardness rubbing against Morse’s hip, and kissed him. Morse could feel Thursday’s effort to keep it tender, could practically feel him vibrating with self-control. He arched up a little under Thursday, spreading his legs so that Thursday was in the cradle of them. Arched up again, and heard Thursday’s breathing grow more ragged.

 

Morse pulled back from the kiss. “Want you,” he whispered, and this time it was Thursday that groaned, and Morse that flushed with pleasure at hearing the sound.

 

“You’re going to bloody kill me, that’s what you’re going to do,” Thursday muttered. He kissed Morse again, ferociously this time, and rocked hard against him for a moment. Then he pulled back, panting, to Morse’s noise of disapproval, and sat back on his heels to look down at Morse.

 

“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to do,” he whispered harshly, then he kissed his way down Morse’s chest, pausing to bite at his stomach. Morse let his head fall back, disinclined to argue, and didn’t stop to think until Thursday paused to nuzzle the curls at the base of his cock.

 

“What –“ he started, and then Thursday was gently resting Morse’s soft cock in in hands, tenderly stroking and rubbing it. Morse shifted in almost-discomfort, humming a little uncertainly at the feel of oversensitive skin being touched. Thursday was so gentle though; Morse gradually settled back down. “Feels nice,” he muttered sleepily, as slightly calloused fingers carefully rolled and played with him. “Mmm, nice.” His voice was growing slurred.

 

“Does it?” He could feel Thursday’s breath against his prick. It gave a little twitch. “How does it feel, Morse?”

 

“Mmm? Don’t know. Weird.” He trailed off for a bit, the soft sensations taking up too much of his concentration. “But good. Too sensitive, but somehow better when you’re – oh!” he gave a sharp cry as warm, wet heat enveloped the very tip. “Oh, I can’t… I can’t…“ His hips bucked up slightly, and then away again, not sure if they wanted to advance or retreat. Thursday held him steady, and began to lick delicately around the head. “Oh God, _sir!_ _Thursday!_ _Sir!_ ” Morse rolled his head from side to side and brought his hands down to try and catch at Thursday’s head – though whether or not to try and stop him he didn’t know. A strong hand caught both of his wrists in one though, pulling them to the side, and the pleasurable torture continued.

 

Thursday took a little more of his cock into his mouth, and started sucking gently - so, so gently, lapping his tongue against the underside of Morse’s dick. His hand alternated between stroking the base of Morse’s shaft, and dropping to tease along the skin of his balls. Morse felt himself moved almost to tears.

 

“Oh God,” he said again. “Please. Please. _Please_!” With agonising slowness, Thursday pulled his mouth away, immediately cupping Morse in his hand again, as though he were protecting him from the cold.

 

“Please what, Endeavour?” And his voice sounded like he’d been sucking Morse’s cock for _days_ , it was so gravelly. He gave Morse the lightest squeeze and Morse cried out, hips arching; he felt himself harden again. “Oh, that’s good,” Thursday murmured approvingly. “That’s very good.” And he bent his head again and took Morse back into his mouth.

 

The next few minutes passed in a blur of broken whimpers and pleas and Morse shamelessly begging as Thursday let go of his hands to press fingers against the entrance to his arse again. “Please,” Morse said again and again in a voice cracked with want, “ _Please_ , I need… I need...”

 

Finally _, finally_ , Thursday pulled away again, and Morse was so hard and so close that he shuddered and arched at the motion. “Not yet, Endeavour, not yet.” And Thursday was moving over him again, tipping them both onto their sides to lie pressed close together. Morse cried out in overload at the sensation, and then Thursday was gripping both of them together in a hand still slick from earlier, and pulling and rubbing and moving them together until Morse couldn’t stop himself, biting down hard on Thursday’s shoulder as he jerked and shook and pulsed his come all over Thursday’s stomach. Thursday groaned, shouted, “Morse!” though gritted teeth, and came seconds afterwards.

 

They lay together in a sticky, tangled heap - Morse’s pyjamas still twisted around his ankles, he realised – and, just as Morse felt his face start to flush red at the thought of what they’d done, Thursday pulled him in close with an arm around his back. “You were beautiful,” he whispered in Morse’s ear, “that was perfect;” and the anxiety subsided.

 

\-------

 

Even with the time spent in easy, soothing touches after they’d made love, they’d still gone to bed early the night before; so it was no surprise that Morse woke while it was still dark and couldn’t get back to sleep. There were no clocks in the room, even if there weren’t too little light to see them by, and he lay feeling too warm and stiff and trying to work out if it was five o’clock or seven.

 

Eventually he got up, and crept through to the bathroom to empty his bladder. He washed the worst of the dry stickiness off of his skin with a flannel at the sink, trying not to make too much noise. He wasn’t used to having to be considerate of anyone else; it had been a long time since he lived with somebody.

 

He went downstairs after he brushed his teeth; it was six o’clock, after all, the clock in the hall told him. Guiltily he transferred the leftovers to the fridge – he’d forgotten to come back down last night and do it when they cooled. He finished the washing up and tidying, carefully gathering the broken glass in the sink and putting it to one side, and then stood leaning his hands on the kitchen sink for a while, staring out of the window into the darkened garden.

 

That had been... intense didn’t begin to describe it. It had been completely different to his fantasies, but even thinking of it made him shiver with pleasure. If he’d found it hard to look Thursday in the eye after touching himself and thinking about the man, how the hell was he supposed to do it now?

 

A few minutes more and he shivered again, but this time from cold. Standing in the kitchen naked wasn’t one of the best ideas he’d ever had. He didn’t even know if any of the neighbour’s houses had windows in this direction. He went back out into the living room and curled up on the sofa under a blanket, and took up the paper he’d bought the day before and then not looked at. The crossword was depressingly easy to solve – not up to the usual Oxford Mail standard.

 

Finished, he found his way back upstairs and nudged back into bed beside Thursday as though he had never left; Thursday grumbled a little at the disturbance but raised an arm and folded Morse into his chest. Morse lay there, listening to his heartbeat, and felt the pressure of time passing. It was already Wednesday.

 

He must have dozed off again, because the next time he woke it was to the shift of Thursday under him, to a gentle caress down his back and a voice saying “Morning,” as he sleepily opened his eyes.

 

Thursday was half propped up on some pillows above him, a book held loosely in one hand as he looked down at Morse’s head on his chest. Morse yawned, and rolled away to stretch luxuriously. Then he rolled back, his head easily finding its spot again, his hand coming to rest on Thursday’s broad chest and idly trace patterns on his skin. Thursday’s arm came around him again as though it had never left. “Time’s it?”

 

“Not sure. It was past eight a little while ago when I went downstairs. Might be nine now.” Morse gave another little yawn. “You sleep alright?”

 

“Mmm, yes.” He brushed his lips high against Thursday’s chest in a kiss. Then he stirred himself enough to move properly, to clamber up to straddle Thursday and sit astride him, looking down. Thursday dropped the book to the side, and his hands came up to frame Morse’s hips. Morse found that he was completely unselfconscious with his nakedness now, as though being together the night before had flipped a switch. He’d always been a bit like that with previous lovers as well, he supposed.

 

Carefully he lowered himself so that they were pressed flush together; belly to belly, chest to chest, groin to groin. Wriggling down a little, he folded his arms on Thursday’s chest and rested his chin on them, trying to take in every detail of the man before him.

 

Thursday moved his hands to Morse’s face; chapped fingertips running down his face with care, and Morse closed his eyes and hummed at the feel of it.

 

When he kissed Thursday, it was with the same inevitability as a boulder rolling down a steep hill. It gathered speed in much the same manner too, staying soft and sleepy for the first few moments and then escalating swiftly, until the two of them could barely part for long enough to draw in air.

 

Thursday kept Morse pressed tightly to his chest with a hand against his back, but it gradually drifted downwards with slow, constant pressure. He slid it down to gently cup and stroke Morse’s bottom, and the two of them rocked together with increasing urgency.

 

Afterwards, Thursday took great delight in being the one to wipe Morse off with a warm, damp flannel in the bathroom, and Morse found that he could definitely still blush.

 

Breakfast was toast with jam, and long lingering touches over the table. When Thursday suggested another walk, Morse agreed unthinkingly before privately reconsidering that he would rather not have left the house.

 

Thursday took their plates to the sink. “Call Win for me, will you? I’ll be through in a minute, but I dare say she’ll want to speak to you anyway.”

 

“What’s the number?”

 

He muttered it to himself as he dialled, and after a few rings she answered. “Win Thursday speaking.”

 

“Umm, good morning, this is Morse.”

 

“Morse? How are you, love?” She didn’t sound worried, didn’t immediately ask where her husband was and why it wasn’t him calling her.

 

“Uh, fine thank you. And you?”

 

“Oh yes, very well thank you. The weather’s lovely here, and I’m going out for lunch with Judy and Margret today.”

 

“That’s nice,” he said, at a bit of a loss.

 

“How was your first day there then?”

 

“Oh, good. It was nice here too – sunny. Windy though, by the coast – we went for a walk.”

 

“And found the pub I’ll bet,” she said with a smile in her voice.

 

“Mmm,” he said noncommittally. “And then we read, and he listened to the radio, and…” Morse went quiet for a minute, then, “It’s really odd. I don’t know what to do around him. I mean, I can’t just sit there and read my book, and ignore him, but I don’t know what to _do_.”

 

“Endeavour, love,” she sighed. “Don’t worry about it. Just do whatever you would normally do, but some of it together. You’re two different people, grown people, with their own habits. You’ll learn to fit together.”

 

 And, while he hadn’t meant his question to be an awkward one, her answer made him conscious that he’d forced her to give him advice on _how to_ _be_ _in a relationship with her husband_.

 

“Sorry,” he murmured quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“I know you didn’t, love. So, what’s-“

 

“Oh, hang on, here’s Thursday.” He passed the phone over with tangible relief. Thursday eyed him with mild amusement, and then started talking happily to his wife.

 

\------------

 

The weather was warmer today, perhaps fifty five degrees, and they lingered on the beach. Morse took his shoes and socks off and dug his toes into the sand, and soon Thursday joined him, rolling up the bottom of his trousers as they let the frigid waves splash around their ankles.

 

“A couple of minutes is enough for me, I can barely feel my toes!” Thursday retreated to a nearby rock to dry off, but Morse stayed, facing straight into the wind and the sea with his hair flying wildly about him.

 

They went back to the cottage for lunch, eating bits of broken up pie reheated in the oven. The kitchen table was right next to a window looking out on the overgrown garden, and Thursday turned out to be a keen birdwatcher.

 

“Just in my garden, mind,” he grumbled, embarrassed. “But I know my tits from my chaffinches. I keep a pair of binoculars in the cupboard, and Sam bought me a book, a few years ago.” Morse knew robins, of course, but Thursday pointed out a few of the other visitors and told him what you’d see at this time of year.

 

After they cleaned up, Morse pinned him against the counter and kissed into Thursday’s smile.

 

\--------

 

Late afternoon they did a tour of the other two pubs in the village, The Red Lion and The Grey Goose, sampling their ales and their atmosphere. By common agreement they then made their way back to The Bee and Barrow, and ate an early supper there; lamb stew for Morse, and fish and chips for Thursday. Morse had a suspicion that fish and chips were a constant on the two-item menu.

 

The owner had another brief chat with them, and a couple of locals tipped their hats in Morse and Thursday’s direction, but otherwise they were left to themselves.

 

They’d been carried this far on confusion, drama and sheer longing, but now that they were spending full days together in only each other’s company Morse had come to the uncomfortable realisation that he and Thursday didn’t really have much to talk about that wasn’t work.  He was happy to listen to Thursday talk, of course, about pretty much anything that wasn’t football, but he felt he couldn’t really contribute much. Likewise, when he started talking about some of the things which fascinated him, or that he thought were wrong with the world, he saw a disconcertingly familiar expression on Thursday’s face sometimes – the one people wore when they thought Morse was being a bit of a snob.

 

As bond-mates went, Morse thought, they were more than slightly mismatched.

 

He broke out the brandy when they got back, to Thursday’s approval and his ‘don’t tell Win.’ That reminded him he’d been planning on calling the family that evening, so that he could have a quick chat with Joan and Sam.

 

While he called, Morse cracked open the bottle, and got the fire started; it was similar to the one at his father’s house, so easy enough once he found the wood supply.

 

“How are they all?” he asked as Thursday came back through to the living room.

 

“Well enough. Sam’s fine, Joan’s going out on a date with that new bloke again tonight, and Win was telling me all about her day.” He went quiet, and Morse handed him a glass.

 

‘You miss them,’ seemed like a terribly trite thing to say, and yet Morse felt it down to his bones – Thursday should be there with them, not here with Morse while they struggled to find five words to say to each other.

 

Not that the silences were bad exactly – they’d always had those, and they’d always been comfortable. And Morse wasn’t the sort to talk much at the best of times. But there was a difference between comfortable silence when you didn’t  _need_ to say anything, and the silence that came when you had nothing  _to_  say.

 

Thursday seemed to read his mind, however. “They’re managing fine, Morse. And, to be honest, it’s nice to have a few days of quiet. I don’t regret having children for the world, but they don’t half make your life chaotic.” Morse gave a half-smile in acknowledgement.

 

They sat and sipped their brandy, watching the fire burn, and Thursday’s hand came to curl in the short hair at the nape of Morse’s neck. He sighed, and let his head fall to the side slightly.  _This_ was easy.  _This_ was right.

 

“I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like,” Morse said softly as he came to the bottom of the glass. “If she hadn’t – If we’d stayed together. Where I would be now.” Thursday stayed silent, gently teasing his fingers through Morse’s hair. “If I would have been happy with her. I mean, it must not have been a very good relationship, a good bond, if…? And I must not have been–“ He broke off, and reached for the bottle of brandy, settling back into Thursday’s side when his glass was topped up.

 

“I don’t know enough to know if something can be wrong with a bond, Morse, but it certainly sounds like she used you ill,” Thursday said slowly. “I know I said I’d not ask you any questions, but…” He didn’t finish, but his hand gripped the nape of Morse’s neck for a moment.

 

Morse stared at the flames flickering in the fireplace, feeling the warmth of them washing over his skin. Thursday was a reassuring presence next to him, and he’d not felt so calm and protected in  _years_.

 

“I thought everything was fine. I thought we were happy.” Morse’s voice sounded distant, and not his own at all. “We were living together; we spent almost all our time together. We were planning the wedding, but it barely even mattered; we already knew that we were going to be together forever.”

 

He drew in a deep breath, and focused on the pattern of the firelight glimmering on the brandy. “Then this chap turned up – someone she used to know before. Henry. I was happy, at first, because she was happy, and he seemed nice enough. Another addition to our nights out. Then she told me… she said he’d asked her out. And who does that? Asks out someone else’s fiancé, even if they aren’t in a bond? And he knew that we were. I laughed it off, thought… I don’t know. Assumed that it wasn’t even a possibility. That she was… that she wanted to be with me.

 

“She got angry though, said she didn’t think it was funny that I didn’t think she would cheat on me.” He paused. “That sounds stranger said out loud. But she – she felt like she didn’t have a choice. That she didn’t know what she would feel for me anyway, without the bond – how much of it was even real.” He stopped again, swallowing against a lump in his throat, and set his glass carefully on the table.

 

“There now, lad,” Thursday said beside him, pulling him in a little closer. The sound of his voice helped ground Morse, and he blinked the tears away before they formed.

 

“That was him,” Morse said hoarsely. “That bit, I know it was. She was all Henry this, and Henry that. And she - a few days later she said she didn’t want it anymore, that she wanted to try with him. That she hated that I’d taken away her choice to try with him. She said what she’d had with him before, she knew that had been real. Not like it was with me.”

 

Remembered nausea and pain made him breath harshly through his nose for a minute. “I thought I was sick, that week. So dizzy. And she was angry, so angry, all the time. And then, I don’t know if she looked up somewhere, what it would take, or if she just…” Now he couldn’t go on, throat closing in on itself utterly.

 

“Hush now, lad, it was long ago.” Thursday gently drew him in until his head was leaning against Thursday’s shoulder, and he turned to press his face against Thursday’s shirt for a moment. The familiar, soothing smell he inhaled was enough to ease his breathing a little, and he struggled on.

 

“She came back, with him. He would have held me down, but I didn’t fight back. I didn’t understand why she was... _I didn’t understand_. And the things she said, the things she said to me…” He didn’t even realise he was crying until Thursday wiped a thumb over Morse’s cheek. “God, I’m sorry,” he said, bringing a hand up to swipe at his eyes and pulling back. Thursday followed him though, keeping the hand on the back of his neck even when he tried to shake it off.

 

“I asked, lad,” he said quietly. “I knew it wasn’t a pretty tale.”

 

“They just left me – a friend found me a few hours later. I had to miss a tutorial!” he said a little hysterically. “He patched me up; he was a good friend. But he didn’t know what was wrong, even though - even though apparently everyone knew that she’d been... I think after that people figured it out soon enough but no one told me. _No one told me_ and it _hurt_ and I didn’t know, I didn’t know for days what… I thought I was dying,” he croaked.

 

“Alright, Endeavour, alright now. It’s alright now.”

 

“They’re married.” Morse laughed hoarsely, and the jagged edges of the sound made him wince. “Someone told me a couple of months ago. Happy. And I’ve been sitting around, wasting my life; I could barely go on a date, I certainly couldn’t get _laid_!”

 

“ _Endeavour_ -“

 

“How could you? How could you do that?” he asked brokenly, and Thursday grasped his shoulders with a strong grip and turned him to face him.

 

“I would never do that,” he said fiercely. “I would never hurt you like that, do you hear me, Morse? Never. Morse?” Morse hiccoughed helplessly, and didn’t respond. “Not just because I don’t want to see you in pain but because you’re _mine_. Mine, Endeavour, and don’t you forget it. Do you hear me?”

 

Finally Morse nodded; feeling like the tide had gone out and sucked him out with it, leaving him open and raw. Thursday pulled him into a tight hold then, rocking him slightly, and Morse grasped at his sleeves and just held on. Eventually he summoned enough presence of mind to clear his throat. “Sorry,” he whispered, sounding a little like he’d swallowed broken glass.

 

“Don’t start. You have nothing to apologize for.” He kissed Morse’s temple, then his cheek. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

 

Morse gave an uncertain nod, not sure it had been a good idea after all. It hadn’t felt like this when he’d talked to DeBryn about it, but then he hadn’t gone into as much detail, or talked as much about... when it happened.

 

They drew apart slightly, and Thursday retrieved their glasses from the table. “Cheers,” he said dryly, and Morse tipped his head back and swallowed the contents of his glass in one. It burned – his throat, his stomach – and then he gasped as the weight of it hit him. “This is too good for that,” Thursday said, but his tone wasn’t disapproving as he took the glass from Morse’s hands again.

 

Morse shook his head when Thursday gestured at the bottle. “Not at the moment,” he said, already regretting downing the last one.

 

Thursday snorted. “Fair enough. So, barely even a date, hmm? And here I thought you were quite the ladies man.”

 

“No.” Morse was quiet for a moment, and then painfully admitted. “I hadn’t been with anyone in three years.”

 

Thursday’s shoulder bumped companionably against his. “Me either, lad. Longer than three.”

 

Morse hesitated, wondering whether his curiosity outweighed the couple’s right to privacy. “Would you,” he asked stumblingly, “would you mind telling me why? You and Mrs Thursday?” He felt ashamed as soon as he asked, cheeks burning crimson, but he couldn’t take the words back.

 

Taking a long drink of his own, Thursday squinted sideways at him. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

 

“Not if you don’t want to,” Morse added hurriedly.

 

“No, I –“ Thursday sighed. “It’s not a pretty tale either, Morse, and you’ll think the less of me for it.” Morse didn’t say anything, but rested his hand lightly on the inside of Thursday’s knee. “Well, the short of it is that… I had an affair. During the war.” He stared fixedly at the fire, not looking at Morse. “I didn’t love Win any less, but she was so far away, and Luisa was…” He sighed again. “I fell in love with her. I still was, a bit, for years after.”

 

Morse didn’t move his hand, but his heart was thudding furiously. He would never, _never_ have thought Thursday would be unfaithful to his wife. The irony of that didn’t escape him.

 

“But the war ended, and I came back home to my wife. And I loved her, but things weren’t quite the same between us. We had Joan, of course, and Sam, and they were so precious.” His voice sunk very low. “And then one day I told her. I don’t even know why, now. My own selfish need to confess, and have her still love me, maybe. But it hurt her, and things between us… changed. And in the years after that – we’re still close, Morse, I still love her, but not… not like that. Not anymore.”

 

Morse had held his breath for the last part of the tale, and felt his own heart breaking for Mrs Thursday. She didn’t deserve any of this.

 

“Why did you?” he asked finally. “During the war?”

 

He felt Thursday’s shoulder shrug against his. “Lots of fellows did. Looking for a little comfort, I suppose.”

 

“I’m not asking what lots of people did,” Morse snapped, and Thursday’s head jerked round to look at him. “I’m asking about you. Why did _you_ fall in love with her? Why did you have an affair?”

 

Thursday ran his eyes over Morse’s face. “You can’t help who you fall in love with, Endeavour.” Morse raised an eyebrow – maybe not, but you could usually control who you slept with. “It was such a long time ago. I don’t know. I was…” Thursday paused, and swallowed hard. “I was scared, I suppose. All of us pretended we were fine, that we were brave soldiers having a lark. But the things I’d seen, Endeavour, the things I’d seen. The evils I knew were out there.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I didn’t think I’d make it back from the war, not then. Knew my number would be up, sooner or later. I’d never see Win again, and that _hurt_. And Luisa was so alive, so full of life and energy and fun, even though she knew despair. She could make me forget, Morse, for a little while, and God, I needed that.”

 

Morse waited for a moment, until he was sure Thursday had said all he was going to, and then he reached across and cupped Thursday’s face in his hands. “I can understand that,” he said softly. “I can understand needing to forget the hurt.”

 

They looked at each other for a long moment, then, “ _Morse_ ,” Thursday whispered, and he was pressing Morse back into the couch with an urgency that surprised him.

 

He took Morse then, in the way he hadn’t the night before. He tried so obviously to be careful, but amongst the pleasure of his knowing hands there was still discomfort and a little pain. Mostly it felt strange. The second time – after an hour of idle caresses and comments that they really should move from the couch – was heated and much less careful, as though Thursday was so overridden by his own desires that he couldn’t slow down. Morse begged, that time, as every frantic thrust triggered a burst of pleasure which left him gasping. Wild, desperate noises poured from him, completely out of his ability to control, and he could do nothing but toss his head and push back and cry out for more.

 

He was sore, afterwards, sore and embarrassed and extremely conscious that he had an arse full of Thursday’s come twice-over. Thursday was solicitous, beyond gentle, and couldn’t seem to stop touching him. It wasn’t long before Morse started to doze on the sofa, and he would have stayed there had Thursday not half-carried, half badgered him up the stairs and into the bath.

 

The water was the perfect temperature, and the slow circling caresses of a soapy flannel felt like heaven; Morse lay back and let Thursday take care of him. He seemed to enjoy it, and Morse really had no complaints.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright, Morse?” asked Thursday in a hushed voice as he turned out the light and pulled Morse close in the bed.

 

“Mmm. Very alright.”

 

“Because I didn’t mean to-“

 

“Shh,” Morse said a little irritably, and poked Thursday in the side. Thursday chuckled quietly, and his hand took up its usual slow strokes on Morse’s back, soothing him to sleep.

 

\--------

 

He was still a little sore the next morning; a strange ache which kept taking him by surprise when he reached for something, when he bent over, when he sat down. Thursday was eyeing him with something between concern and smugness, or rather both at once, and Morse found it vaguely insufferable.

 

Deciding to forfeit their usual walk, he said that he would sit in the garden and read for a while. Thursday, whose need to constantly be in contact didn’t seem to have subsided, looked slightly worried.

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Morse emphasized. “I just want to sit in the sun for a bit, and read my book.”

 

“Well, maybe I’ll come out too, I haven’t really looked around the garden. And I can watch the birds – you’ll be sitting like a statue, so you won’t scare them off.”

 

The wooden bench wasn’t the most comfortable thing to sit on, and after a minute he went to fetch a cushion from the living room, ignoring Thursday’s laugh - thinly disguised as he pretended to cough into his hand. After a few minutes of sporadic shifting, Morse sunk into his book and didn’t register any further discomfort.

 

Thursday tried to walk around the garden, but couldn’t seem to make it more than a minute at a time before he was back at Morse’s side; brushing a hand over his hair, leaning down for a kiss, a quick squeeze of a shoulder. It was distracting, and Morse told him so absently. With a put upon huff, Thursday sat down beside him, and put his arm around him instead.

 

Morse didn’t really notice the time passing after that, slowly leaning further into Thursday like a plant seeking out sunlight. It was only when the book was pulled from his hands that he looked up and found Thursday’s cheeks reddened from cold.

 

“Come on, Morse, enough.”

 

“I can stay out a bit longer.”

 

“Think I trust you not to get hypothermia?” Morse gave him a look. “Alright, fine.” Thursday sat back down, rubbing his hands together, and this time Morse assessed him properly. Thursday could have just gone back inside and left Morse here, but he hadn’t. He really didn’t seem to be able to leave Morse alone.

 

“What’s wrong?” Morse asked, concerned. “Is it the bond? Is it making you feel strange?”

 

Thursday looked at him like he had no idea what he was talking about. “Nothing’s wrong.” Then, “Why, is something wrong with you?”

 

“I… never mind, let’s go inside, I won’t keep you out in the cold.” They trekked back in, shedding coats and scarves. “Could you make some tea?” Morse asked, suddenly inspired to try a test.

 

Thursday obligingly went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on, but half a minute later was back in the living room with Morse again, gently kissing him. “Go on, tea,” said Morse with a shooing motion. As Thursday went through the doorway again, Morse called, “I’ll just be upstairs.”

 

He went up the bedroom and stood for a moment, nerves on edge, to see if Thursday would follow him.

 

“Morse?” came Thursday’s voice up the stairs. “Morse. Where did you put the digestives?” There was the creak of his foot on the bottom stair.

 

“They’re on the top shelf in the pantry,” called Morse, voice terse.

 

“Of course they are,” Thursday said slightly sarcastically. “Where else would they be? Keep your hair on.” His footsteps retreated, and the tension running through Morse evaporated. It was nothing.

 

Morse waited another two minutes, and went back downstairs just as the kettle started to whistle.

 

“There you are,” said Thursday cheerfully, but his eyes watched Morse keenly. “You alright?”

 

Morse sat at the table with a sheepish laugh. “I was being silly. You just – you kept touching me, and I thought maybe something had gone wrong with the bond; that it was making you…”

 

Thursday put down the kettle, and considered him for a moment. “Morse, there’s more reasons than the bond to want to touch someone all the time. I’m just feeling a bit… protective, that’s all.” Morse glanced up, surprised, and then blushed. Thursday came to sit with him at the table, and picked up his hand. “And, Morse? Nothing’s going to go wrong with the bond. It’s fine – we’re fine. Stop your worrying.”

 

\--------

 

They went to The Red Lion for lunch, and as they were finishing Thursday asked, “Have you given any more thought to it? The conversation we’ll have to have with Bright when we get back.”

 

Morse’s hand hesitated over picking up his pint glass. He didn’t want to talk about this, but they would have to at some point. “What about it? I don’t think I’m going to have much choice in anything. I’d just like to know what’s going on,” he said a little shortly.

 

“Alright,” Thursday said slowly, “that was the wrong question. What do you want, Morse?”

 

“What?” Startled, Morse snapped his eyes up to meet Thursday’s. “What do you mean?”

 

“What do you want to do? Do you want to be a Sergeant, an Inspector?”

 

“Yes,” Morse said immediately.

 

“Why? What do you like about the job? You wanted to quit it before.” Morse flushed at the reminder of his resignation letter, half a year ago.

 

The answer, of course, was Thursday. That was what Morse liked about the job. “I like helping people. I like feeling like what I do matters - like I make a difference.”

 

“That’s good,” Thursday said approvingly. “But there’s loads of jobs you could do where that would be true. Why the police?”

 

“Because I can do it, I’m good at it,” said Morse in frustration.

 

“Well that’s true. You’d be a good detective Morse, a great one even, and I stand by that. And I wasn’t kidding when I said the world needs good coppers. But Morse, is it what you _want_?”

 

Morse looked away, feeling oddly betrayed by this line of conversation. Was Thursday trying to get him to leave the station so that things would be easier; because he didn’t want Morse around at work? He knew the thought was beneath him even as it entered his mind, but he couldn’t shake it.

 

“Say it is what I want. What will happen?”

 

Thursday moved his plate aside with a sigh. “Well, you won’t be able to work anywhere in the immediate chain of command under me, and to be honest your chances of promotion will be a bit scuppered anywhere in the station – there’ll always be the suggestion that you’re pulling strings.”

 

“But if I pass my Sergeant’s-“

 

“You’ll need a recommendation though, and it isn’t all about the exam, Morse.” Thursday ran a hand over his forehead. “I know one DI that might be a good fit, but most of the others at Oxford are…” he grimaced. “Or you could move elsewhere – that would be better for your career. But-“

 

“But then there’s the bond,” Morse finished, and Thursday nodded.

 

“I convinced you to stay because it would have been a bloody _waste_ to lose you, Morse,” he said, unexpectedly fiercely. “But since I don’t gain anything from being selfish anymore, what _do_ you want?”

 

“I don’t know,” Morse said, so softly he wasn’t even sure he’d actually said the words. “I was done. Before. I came back for – for you.” He swallowed, and found he couldn’t quite look Thursday in the eye. “But I like some things about it – solving puzzles, seeing clues.”

 

“There are things you don’t like, too,” Thursday said quietly, and Morse nodded.

 

“Same as any job, I suppose. Except in this one it’s dead bodies. And it’s so frustrating when no one will _listen_ to me. I can’t help but think it’ll go right back to that, if I’m not working with you. At Carshall-Newtown I… I still wasn’t quite right,” he said carefully. “But all the reasons I was miserable there were good reasons.”

 

“Alright, it’s something to think about. Have you ever thought about picking up your degree?”

 

Thursday asked it so casually, and Morse waited for a moment for the usual shattering agony at the thought. It didn’t come. “Umm. I, ah, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to go back, sir.” He realised after saying it that it was the first time he’d called Thursday ‘sir’ in well over a day and a half.

 

“Why not?” Thursday raised his glass to his lips, and watched Morse evenly.

 

“I, ah, just being in Oxford was hard enough.” He deliberately stopped himself from tacking sir on the end of the sentence this time. “When I came back here for that first case, and then when I started work with you, everything was still… bad.”

 

“You never said.”

 

“No. I mean, better than it used to be, for the first few months after. But if I went past my old college,” his voice became a little shaky, “it would put me in a right state. I couldn’t have gone back.”

 

“What about now?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Would you want to?

 

“ _I said I don’t know_! Stop it!” Morse hissed, losing his temper, and Thursday blinked in surprise. “Sorry,” Morse said after a moment.

 

“That’s alright, it’s obviously still a sore subject. I didn’t mean to…”

 

“No, it’s – I genuinely hadn’t thought about it as an option. But maybe it _would_ be alright, now.”

 

“Hmm, well either way there’s no need to decide now. Bright won’t ship you out anywhere unless we push for that, he’ll just keep you down on general duties and out of my command for the moment. You have time to think it over.” Morse nodded.

 

 ---------

 

They went out on a different path after lunch, one which wound up onto the low cliffs overhanging the water. Morse hadn’t brought a scarf, not thinking they’d be going far, but Thursday pulled a spare out of his pocket. “I’m learning,” he said when Morse looked disconcerted. “If I just assume that you’ll overlook every opportunity to look after yourself, that seems like a fairly safe bet.”

 

Morse pretended to scowl at him, but secretly he was touched. They walked along the clifftop, and after a minute Thursday reached out to take Morse’s hand and tuck it in his own pocket, holding it there in the warmth. His fingertips slid lightly alongside Morse’s, and sent little tingling jolts up and down his arm.

 

“Stop that,” Morse whispered to him after a few minutes, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile. Thursday gave him a bland look.

 

“Stop what?” he asked innocently, and then he drew a long, spiralling circle on Morse’s palm. Morse clenched his hand automatically, pulling back from the ticklish sensation, but Thursday caught it and stepped closer to him. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” But the slight smile on his face said he wasn’t sorry at all.

 

He kissed Morse there, in plain view of the whole world – or at least the grass and the rocks and the sea – and Morse leaned in close and kissed back.

 

When they stopped for another half-pint on the way back, Morse kept his hand in Thursday’s pocket the whole time.

 

\-------

 

“Play me your favourite, then,” Thursday said when they got back, with a small nod to the record player.

 

Morse stopped in the middle of the room, briefly stymied. “Let me just…” He moved to his pile of records, and rested his fingers on the topmost.

 

“What?” asked Thursday, coming up behind him. “You can’t choose, or you’re waiting for me to denounce it as an offence to the ears?”

 

Morse gave an apologetic half-shrug, and felt Thursday’s hands come to cup his shoulders from behind. “It’s not for everyone,” he said doubtfully.

 

“I’m not a complete barbarian, Morse. I have heard opera before. And yes, I even like some of it.” Morse gave him a startled glance over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Go on, put something on.” He stayed behind Morse while Morse took up and examined every record, even though he’d long decided on one. It was a ritual for him, handling his records.

 

He took the one he’d chosen and crossed to the record player, Thursday releasing him as he moved. Opened the turntable, and lowered the record onto the spindle. Started it spinning, set the needle, and after a few seconds music filled the room.

 

Thursday came to stand behind him again. “What are we listening to?” he asked quietly.

 

“It’s La Traviata. Verdi,” Morse added after a moment.

 

“My Italian’s a little rusty. What’s it about?”

 

Morse shifted slightly, and Thursday put his arms around his waist. After a moment’s consideration, Morse skipped to a beautiful aria by the soprano. _È strano_ … _Ah, fors’è lui_. Thursday pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, and Morse closed his eyes.

 

“There is a beautiful courtesan, who thinks she will never be bound by one man, by love. But she falls in love with a man who pursues her, against her instincts, against her whole nature almost. She changes her lifestyle completely, gives up everything she owns, and they are together and very in love.”

 

Thursday nuzzled gently at the back of Morse’s neck. “And then?”

 

“His father comes to speak to her, and tells her she is ruining her lover with her reputation, that she is ruining the arrangement of the marriage of his younger sister, who is good and pure and deserves happiness. At first she says that she cannot imagine life without her Alfredo.”  Morse felt Thursday start at the name. “But the father convinces her that she must, for the sake of Alfredo and his family. So,” Morse paused to draw a deep breath, “she breaks away from him. She tells him that she cannot be with him, and, when he will not give her up, when he accuses her of being with another man, she lets him believe it.”

 

“What then?” Thursday asked in a low voice.

 

“She is disgraced, and alone, and she retreats to die of tuberculosis. Her lover arrives too late to be with her for more than a few minutes.” Morse reached out and set the track to play again, and let his fingers linger on the side of the record player. “She knew such love,” he said wistfully, “and such pain.”

 

“Endeavour.” Thursday pulled Morse back to lean against his chest, pressing his nose hard into Morse’s hair. “I would _never_ give you up,” he whispered harshly in Morse’s ear. His breath puffing over the sensitive skin there made Morse shiver, and a moment later Thursday bit lightly at the tip of it. Morse’s knees almost buckled, and he leant backwards heavily. Thursday’s teeth released him, and the feel of his breath cooling over moist skin made Morse shudder, and shudder again.

 

“Oh yes?” said Thursday with dark interest, and then he licked and bit his way down Morse’s ear, taking the lobe into his mouth and sucking gently with teasing little sweeps of his tongue. Morse leant his head back against Thursday’s shoulder and moaned, completely undone.

 

Thursday grew more ruthless, the teeth clamping down around the soft flesh more forcibly, and Morse began to try and turn his head; to pull away as the sensations became too much. One of Thursday’s hands came up to hold his head in place though, keeping him steady, and Morse would have had to struggle to get away. Instead one of his hands came up to grip over Thursday’s on his chest, the other to rest on the table in front of him, and he just held on. Held on through Thursday’s rough breathing, his own urgent and increasingly ragged whispered pleas, and the teeth and tongue which seemed to know exactly how to torment him as he shook apart in Thursday’s arms.

 

Finally Thursday let go of Morse’s jaw again, as though trusting him to stay there, and his hand slid down Morse’s chest with slow promise. Morse gasped helplessly as quick fingers undid his trousers, the lightest pressure making him squeeze his eyes shut and cry out.

 

“Now then,” Thursday panted roughly into his ear, and slipped his fingers around Morse’s cock through his underwear.

 

\---------

 

Afterwards, Morse pushed Thursday back onto the couch and pleasured him in return, the strains of La Traviata still singing through the air. He wasn’t sure he’d ever made love to opera before, but somehow it heightened everything still further for him; both the pleasure itself and then the calm stillness afterwards.

 

“I could grow to like opera,” Thursday said mildly above him, unknowingly echoing his thoughts. He ran his fingers through the tufts of Morse’s hair and tugged gently. “Perhaps a comedy next time though.”

 

With a half-smile Morse turned onto his back, head resting in Thursday’s lap. “A lot of the comedies have tragedy in them too.”

 

“Well, that’s just life, lad. It doesn’t make the good bits any less good.” He smiled sadly down at Morse.

 

“No, I think sometimes it makes them… more.”

 

They sat on the sofa gently touching and talking until the end of the album, and then Morse stirred to get up and put it away.

 

“What do you normally do of an evening, Morse? Listen to your records?” Thursday asked, still relaxed on the couch. His back to him, Morse raised a shoulder in an uncertain shrug.

 

“Yes. Read _, think_. I used to go out with friends, for drinks. Some nights I sing.”

 

“Ah, yes, your TOSCA, wasn’t it? I’m not likely to forget that in a hurry. You’re still going to do it, then?” He waited for Morse’s nod. “Good. I wasn’t sure if that bastard put you off. I wouldn’t have liked to see him take anything away from you, Morse.”

 

Morse turned, and sat down beside Thursday before allowing himself to say, “He must have been watching me. _Studying_ me.” His voice came out uneven.

 

“Now, Morse, you know he wasn’t in his right mind.”

 

“But he knew!” Morse paused to regroup, his breathing shallow as he remembered the dreadful confrontation on the rooftop. “Even if he’d guessed from my conversation with him that I’d formed another bond, he couldn’t have known it was with you. Not unless he was following me. Following _us_.”

 

“Either way, lad, he’s in prison now.”

 

Morse gave Thursday an unhappy smile. “Yes, for ten years until he gets out on _good behaviour_ ,” he stressed. Then, “The things he _said_ …”

 

“I know, love, I know.” Thursday looped an arm around him, and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his head. “But he won’t take you from me, or me from you. God help him if he even tries.”

 

\----------

 

The call came at half past eight the next morning. Morse had assumed it was from Mrs Thursday at first, until he heard Thursday’s raised voice from the hall. “Give me half an hour to consider it,” Thursday was snapping into the receiver as Morse came out to join him, and hung up with an aggrieved sigh.

 

Morse waited a moment, and when nothing seemed forthcoming asked, “Is everything alright? Mrs Thursday? The children?”

 

“What?” Thursday peered at him in bewilderment. “Oh, no, nothing with them. That was Bright.” Morse felt a plunging feeling in his stomach.

 

“Oh? What did he want?” Morse strove for light and uncaring and didn’t make it. Thursday moved to take his hand.

 

“He wants us to come back.” _Us_ , at least, not _me_. “There’s a killer, escaped from prison two days ago; he was seen in the Oxford area late last night. Richard Tyler. Went away three years ago for murdering his wife.”

 

“And you’ve the best chance to catch him?” Morse asked, confused. It wasn’t common to call officers back from leave when there were others available.

 

“It was me that nicked him – they say I know him best. Years ago now though, not sure how much I remember.” Thursday sighed, and continued quietly, “Before he went in, he said he was going to go after his little girls.”

 

The two of them stood in the hallway for a minute. Morse could see their reflections in the mirror; his own face looked pale and concerned. “But-“

 

“We’d have to ask them to put us up in a hotel for the moment, of course, doctor’s orders, and I’ll have to make it a condition that you’re seconded to the case, because I don’t think I can…”

 

Morse had noticed that Thursday’s need to touch him hadn’t abated since arriving in Cornwall. If anything it had increased. His own instinct to lean into Thursday at every opportunity was very hard to suppress too.

 

Thursday cleared his throat. “Could be an opportunity, to show them we can work well together. Or a chance to make bloody fools of ourselves, of course.” He ran a hand over his face.

 

“You want to go back,” Morse said quietly. “You’ve already decided.”

 

“No. _No_. I don’t _want_ _to,_ Endeavour, I really don’t want to – trust me on this.” He put an arm around Morse, who reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled closer. “Just don’t know if I could live with myself, if something happened, and I could have helped stop it,” he said gruffly.

 

And that was Thursday all over; it was why both of them were police officers in the first place. “Alright,” Morse said, mind already leaping ahead to being back in Oxford.

 

If they could prove that they could still work together well, was there a possibility that Morse might still be able to be Thursday’s bagman? His sergeant, one day soon? Perhaps Thursday would be able to appeal to Bright?

 

The thought of leaving the quiet space they’d started to carve out for themselves here was simultaneously a wrench and a relief. He’d been happy here, with Thursday, but at the same time Morse was at his best when given something to _do,_  and at his best with Thursday when they were working a case.

 

“We should be able to make it back in time to get an update on the case today; start doing some reading. We can get properly stuck in in the morning – stop this bastard before he does more harm,” Thursday said, thinking aloud.

 

They turned together, and walked through to the kitchen. “Tell me what you remember,” Morse asked as he started pulling the food off the shelves.

 

“Well, we found the wife strangled in…”

 

It was seamless, the transition from idle, vacationing lovers to police officers again, and if anything it felt more like _them_ , more real, to Morse.

 

This was how it would be now, perhaps. Talking about a case, with occasional touches of their hands. Thursday pointing out birds in the garden over breakfast. Life as part of a family again; a good one. For the first time in a long while, Morse felt like the future might work out after all.

 

The (original) End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, and I'm calling it done because I think I've said all the things I want to say. So it's done (except for the extended alternate ending - now amputated and found as the next chapter). Unless I actually get around to writing some Thursday POV missing scenes. Or a sequel. *sigh*
> 
> This fic was brought to you by the word 'awkward' - my most overused description. When I watch the show, every other minute Morse looks awkward, or says or does something awkwardly – it just fits him so well. Please, someone, give me some other words! The thesaurus has not helped me here.
> 
> Edited to add: I just found an awesome ear nibbling scene in one of Tashilover's fics, Good Night, Sleep Tight. On the off chance I read that at some point in the past and was totally inspired by it, superkudos to Tashilover.


	8. Alternative extended ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if things went wrong when Morse and Thursday returned so early in their leave? (Alternative, extended ending, much more H/C and Morse!whump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've separated this from the previous chapter and put it here, because I feel it works better on its own (this is not actually a new chapter since yesterday)

“You want to go back,” Morse said quietly. “You’ve already decided.”

 

“No. _No_. I don’t _want_ _to,_ Endeavour, I really don’t want to – trust me on this.” He put an arm around Morse, who reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled closer. “Just don’t know if I could live with myself, if something happened, and I could have helped stop it,” he said gruffly.

 

And that was Thursday all over; it was why both of them were police officers in the first place. “Alright,” Morse said, despite suddenly uncooperative vocal chords. “Of course.”

 

“Alright then, I’ll give the station a call back. Why don’t you start packing?”

 

A minute later Morse found himself adrift in the middle of the sitting room, unable to move a step further. They’d barely had  _four days_. Not that Morse had originally anticipated any; at the beginning of the weekend he’d barely even hoped to keep the bond. But now that they were _here_ , now that Thursday was close and Morse could touch him whenever he wanted, it was a hard luxury to give up.

 

It was raining outside. Pouring, in fact, and Morse had eyed the weather over breakfast with a happy glow of anticipation at being able to lure Thursday back into bed all day. Now, as he pictured them lying sated amongst rumpled sheets upstairs, Thursday’s hands gently caressing him over and over, he felt a tight pain in his chest knowing that it would never happen. Some doubtful part of himself whispered that nothing might ever happen, ever again; they would retreat from this idyll back to Oxford, and Thursday would be reminded of his normal life, of what things were like without Morse.

 

It seemed ridiculous, at that moment, to think that Morse could have ever had any part of a thing as wondrous as this.

 

And Thursday had just shrugged it all off like it was nothing, telling him to go and pack, obviously intending to leave immediately. Morse had at least hoped that they could be together one more time before leaving. That was selfish of him, though, if lives might be at stake.

 

He must have stood there for several minutes, until Thursday’s, “Morse?” from the doorway behind him. He didn’t know what expression was on his face, but Thursday’s softened in response. “Oh, Morse.” Crossing the room in a few strides, he wrapped Morse in his arms. Morse stood stiffly, feeling unable to speak for fear of what he might say.

 

“I’m sorry, Morse,” Thursday murmured after a moment, and Morse just shook his head. “I never thought something like this would crop up.”

 

“Not your fault,” Morse muttered into Thursday’s jacket – and he’d already put his  _jacket_ on. Thursday hadn’t worn his jacket in days.

 

“It’ll only be half days, hopefully. We’ll have to get cleared by a doctor, since we were put on official medical leave; I don’t know if DeBryn qualifies, but we can try and call in a favour.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

Thursday gave him a last squeeze and pulled back. “Tell you what, I’ll start packing, you call Win.”

 

Taking Morse’s silence for agreement, he headed for the kitchen. All that food they hadn’t eaten, Morse thought. At least it could go back to the Thursdays, and not get wasted.

 

He was at the phone and dialling the number from memory when he had to stop for a moment, pressing a hand to his abdomen and trying to breathe through the feeling of being lightly winded. It was just temporary, he told himself, it would pass. But it didn’t, so he went ahead and finished dialling, strangely reassured to hear Mrs Thursday’s voice on the other end. She seemed surprised when no one answered, and said again “Hello? Who is this?”

 

“It’s Morse, Mrs Thursday,” he managed to get out.

 

“Oh, good morning, love. How are you both today?” He took a moment to just breathe. “Endeavour?”

 

‘Yes. I – we’re fine. We’re coming back, actually, there’s a case.” This time he even sounded half normal.

 

“A case? Surely they can handle it without you both?”

 

There was the sound of clattering from the kitchen behind him as Thursday took things out of cupboards. “Apparently not. And… he needs to help.”

 

“Of course he does,” she said resignedly. “I’m so sorry, love.” Morse grimaced, and bit his lip.

 

“It’s alright,” he said. “It’ll be good to be back in Oxford. Too much beautiful scenery here,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat. “Anyway, this way we’ll be seeing you again sooner.”

 

This time it was her turn to pause. “Do you have somewhere else to stay? I’d – that is, this time is good for me too - to adjust.”

 

“Of course,” Morse said, after an awkward pause. How was he supposed to tell Thursday that his wife would rather not see him for a while? Because of Morse. He drew in a careful breath, and it hitched in his chest.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked, suddenly sounding alert.

 

Morse braced himself against the wall, and took shallow breaths. “Not really,” he said before he could control his mouth, and then he found it had felt unexpectedly  _good_  to say it. “I feel sick. My chest hurts.”

 

“Endeavour?” He didn’t reply, and her voice sharpened. “Endeavour, love, could you put Fred on for me? I just need to have a quick chat with him.”

 

“No. He’s busy packing,” Morse said, and it was as though someone else had taken over control of his voice.  “I’m sure he’ll call you later.” He hung up before she could protest.

 

The phone rang a minute later, and he lifted the receiver and hung up immediately. He watched it warily for another minute, but it didn’t ring again. Good. 

 

He went upstairs and packed his suitcase without allowing himself to think too much, throwing his clothes in without care. He wasn’t sure if he should pack Thursday’s things, so he left them. His suitcase went straight in the car, where the food hamper was now already stowed. 

 

Coming into the house, he met Thursday in the hall. “Was that the phone again?”

 

“Oh, just Mrs Thursday ringing back to remind me to give you her love.”

 

“She alright?”

 

“Yes,” Morse said, not sure whether or not it was a lie. “I think she might… still want us to take the time before being back there.”

 

Thursday heaved a sigh. “I’d thought it myself. I’ll give her a call later. No other message for me?”

 

“No, nothing,” and this lie came easily.

 

Morse closed his record player, thinking of them standing there just the day before; Thursday holding him in his arms as they listened to the music. It had been a scene he’d longed to repeat. That wouldn’t happen now, either.

 

His records went in a bag and then he wrapped them in his coat – as waterproofed as he could make them before he took everything out to the car. He sat in the passenger seat, put his seatbelt on, and waited. Rain lashed at the windscreen, and it was chilly in the car – his coat was still in the back around the records; he barely noticed though.

 

It was maybe twenty minutes before the other door cracked open, Thursday struggling against the wind. “Morse? Oh, you are here!” He closed the door again, and loaded his bags into the back of the car.

 

The front door opened again; another gust of wind and rain. “Christ, nice weather for it. You don’t fancy driving then?” Morse made a noncommittal sound, still staring at the water splattering on the windscreen. Thursday sighed. “I know you’re upset Morse. I thought we talked about it?”

 

Morse wasn’t sure that he was upset, anymore. He wasn’t sure of much of anything, really. The thought idly struck him that it would be deeply ironic if the bond had chosen _now_ to break. “No I’m not,” he said eventually.

 

“Course you are, lad, clear as day. I’m sorry, Morse, but you understand why it’s important?”

 

“Yes, I know,” said Morse, and he did.

 

Thursday sighed again, and started the engine, turning the heat up to clear some of the fog away from the windows. Morse was asleep before they hit the main road.

 

\----------

 

“Morse? Morse. I’m just going into the station, alright? I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Morse grunted, and rolled his head to the side. “I’ll take that as a yes, then. You could sleep for the Olympics, you could.”

 

Then, “Morse? We’re at the Radcliffe, I got them to clear DeBryn.”

 

Morse roused enough to unbuckle his seatbelt, and walked slowly after Thursday, who was hurrying through the rain.

 

“Come on, lad,” Thursday said, taking his elbow as they went through the side door. “I know you’re angry at me – I would be too. Can’t you let it go for a bit though?”

 

The morgue was in the basement, but DeBryn’s office was a floor above. The skulls were still there on the shelves and Morse gazed at them distractedly, feeling like they were staring at him. Judging him.

 

“-a long drive-“

 

“-surprised to get your call-“

 

“-don’t think I-“

 

And then someone was gripping his chin, tilting his head from side to side. “Morse? Morse?”

 

Morse blinked, and DeBryn’s face came into focus, eyes worried behind his glasses. Morse opened his mouth, but couldn’t summon anything beyond a sharp, wounded noise.

 

“How long has he been like this?” the doctor rounded on Thursday angrily.

 

“I – I don’t…” Thursday moved next to him, and collected one of Morse’s numb hands where it hung limply by his side. “He slept the whole way back – I thought I’d let him rest.”

 

“And before that?” DeBryn moved Morse, who went willingly, and his hands were careful as he took Morse’s pulse.

 

“He was quiet. I thought he was just mad at me. We didn’t really speak after we decided to come back.”

 

“ _Decided_? Or you decided for him? Morse, can you hear me?” Morse blinked lazily. “I must have a penlight somewhere around here…” The warm hands on his face and throat went away.

 

“Yes,  _decided_ ,” Thursday bit out after a moment, also sounding angry. It made Morse’s head hurt. “Morse understood about the case, and he’d not leave children in danger if he could help it.”

 

“It’s not a case of whether or not he logically understood! Morse, I’m going to shine a light in your eyes now. You’re lucky, it’s not often I get called on to use this side of my medical degree.”

 

Blinding light flashed across Morse’s vision, and he flinched violently, wrenching his head backwards out of DeBryn’s grip. “There you are. Morse?”

 

“Dr DeBryn?” he asked, voice rusty, eyes blinking rapidly to try and adjust.

 

“That’s right. How are you feeling, Morse, can you tell me?”

 

Morse’s eyes flickered around the office. When had they got here? “Not very well,” he mumbled. He brought his free hand to cover his stomach, and hunched forward around it.

 

DeBryn sighed. “No, I’d imagine not. I was looking for slightly more details, however. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

 

His hand covered Morse’s on his stomach, nudging it to the side a little. It felt so wrong, now, to be touched by anyone but Thursday. The doctor pressed down gently, and Morse blurted “Sick,” and barely had time to aim for the wastepaper bin that was thrust in front of him.

 

At some point he went down to his knees, and Thursday was beside him, holding him, rubbing his back and rumbling soothing nothings in his ear. When he’d thoroughly lost his breakfast, DeBryn put the bin outside and came back with a damp cloth, which he used to carefully wipe Morse’s face and mouth.

 

“Alright, let’s get him up on a chair.”

 

The nearest was one of the hard metal ones, but Morse’s stumbling feet pulled them insistently towards the armchair in the corner, and DeBryn and Thursday obligingly half-carried him between them until he could curl up in it and bury his face in the leather.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Thursday said worriedly above him. “Something he ate?”

 

“I think not,” DeBryn said dryly. “Stay with him, I need to check something.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Morse saw Thursday crouch beside him. “Endeavour? You with me, lad? Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” His hand came up to rest on Morse’s ankle, fingers sliding up under his trousers to skim across bare skin.

 

Morse didn’t answer, focusing on breathing carefully in and out without throwing up again.

 

“Here,” came DeBryn’s voice a minute later. “Put this on him.” A slightly course blanket was draped over him, and tucked gently around him. “You still with us, Morse?”

 

“Hmm,” Morse said, and closed his eyes.

 

“Try to stay awake, Morse.”

 

“What’s that book?” Thursday asked, his hands now stroking over Morse through the blanket.

 

“It’s a medical text on disorders of – never mind. Let me see…” The doctor muttered to himself for a moment, and Morse felt things start to go hazy again.

 

“Morse. Morse!” This time it was Thursday’s hand cupping his cheek; lightly shaking his shoulder. “Come on now, wake up, just stay awake for a little while.”

 

He dragged his eyes open again, and saw DeBryn had pulled a chair over so that he could sit beside Morse.

 

“My best guess is it’s a form of shock,” he said to Thursday, voice serious. “The only reference I have suggests something similar happens to bonded individuals who falsely believe their partner has died.”

 

“But he doesn’t think I’m dead – I’m right here!” Thursday protested.

 

“I know that; I said similar, not the same,” the doctor snapped. “You have to remember Morse is more sensitive than people bonding for the first time. God knows what having his previous bond broken did to him; he needs absolute stability in this one. You shouldn’t have come back – he needed that time!”

 

“I didn’t –“

 

“I told you that, before,” DeBryn said sharply.

 

“I thought you mean that, well that  _we_  needed that time. To let things… settle as it were.”

 

DeBryn sighed, and reached out to gently touch Morse’s face. Morse jerked his head back, nostrils flaring, suddenly alert and wary. “No,” the doctor said sadly. “ _You_  needed that time, because you’d have been useless trying to do anything else; you still will be, same as all bonded couples. You both needed the time to know each other, and work things out. But _Morse_ needed that time to allow the bond to stabilise, to try and heal whatever the other one tore apart. I don’t have any frame of reference for this, Inspector, I officially have no idea what’s wrong with him or how to fix it.”

 

Thursday was quiet for a moment, then asked “What about unofficially?”

 

“I don’t know.” DeBryn got up, and moved back to his desk. He opened a drawer, and pulled out a bottle of scotch, Morse watching with distant interest. “It looks like some kind of withdrawal, as I said. Something to do with the end of your holiday?” He came back over, and held out a glass to Morse. Morse dragged a heavy limb from under the blanket, but his hand was trembling too much to take the glass. “Here.”

 

DeBryn moved the glass to his lips, but before Morse could take a sip Thursday growled “I’ll do that,” and took it from him. His hand cupping Morse’s chin was gentle despite the tension on his face, and he tilted the glass carefully for Morse to take a little.

 

“Morse, can you tell us what happened just before you started to feel unwell? What were you thinking about?” DeBryn’s voice was kind, but Morse just shook his head jerkily. “Alright. Well my only suggestion is that you do what you’re doing now – stay with him, reassure him, remain in skin contact if possible. Keep him warm.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“I don’t know,” DeBryn said tersely. After a moment he sighed. “Do you have somewhere you can go?”

 

“Not home,” Thursday said slowly, and Morse’s heart panged, his chest feeling tight again.  _Home_. “They said they’d sort us out with something, but I’ve no idea when… Damn, I was supposed to go back to the station.” This time the pain in his chest was more akin to being kicked, and Morse let out a low noise. “Morse?”

 

Morse managed to get his hand up to knock both the hand and the drink away; found his voice somewhere. “I’ll be fine,” he murmured roughly. “Can go back to my flat.”

 

“No offense, Morse, but your flat isn’t really big enough for us,” Thursday said dubiously. “And I don’t think I could sleep through the night on your bed.”

 

“S’alright,” said Morse, and then speech deserted him again.

 

DeBryn was quick-witted though, and picked up what Thursday hadn’t. “I don’t believe he was suggesting that you stay there, Inspector,” he said slowly. “I think he was saying he could go back to his flat while you went to the station.”

 

“You can always come and pick me up in the morning, if you need me for the case,” Morse added, feeling slightly confused. Mrs Thursday hadn’t wanted both of them back at their house yet, but surely it would be alright if it was just Thursday?

 

“In the  _morning_? Don’t be dense, Morse, I’m staying with you, wherever we end up. I just meant I’d need to ring the station. Don’t suppose I can use your phone?” he asked DeBryn, who nodded and took the glass from Thursday as he rose.

 

DeBryn nudged the whisky at Morse’s lips again, and this time Morse took a cautious sip and then another. 

 

“Chief Superintendent Bright, please. Yes, it’s urgent.” Morse stirred sluggishly at the irritation in Thursday’s voice.

 

“Here, can you hold it now?” DeBryn asked, and Morse was distracted keeping his hand steady on the glass.

 

“-yes, sir, Morse has gone into some sort of shock – a problem because we came back early. DeBryn’s looking him over now. No, of course I want to help with the case, but I can’t-“

 

“Have a little more, Morse,” DeBryn coaxed him, and Morse was swayed by the warmth of the whisky again.

 

Finally the receiver slammed down, and Thursday swore. “I told him I wasn’t sure when we’d be available to help, and he says there isn’t money in the budget to put us up anywhere in that case – makes sense, but damn it. I’ll have to take him back to the house.” Thursday sighed.

 

“I can’t imagine that will be good for anyone,” DeBryn commented, and straightened the tilt of the glass in Morse’s hand before getting up. “Go to my place for now; I’ll give you my keys.” When Thursday began to proffer an obligatory refusal, the doctor added, “I’d want to check on him later, anyhow. This makes it easier. Here, I’ll give you a hand with him.”

 

Morse clung tenuously to consciousness as they took him out to the car between them. Once he was sat down again, he was out like a light.

 

\--------

 

The next few hours passed in a haze of shivering and a low voice speaking to him, fading in and out of sleep.

 

Only when his eyelid was lifted and a bright light shone in it again did he jolt back into something resembling awareness, desperately shying away and trying to push backwards as adrenaline shot through his veins.

 

“Hold him,” he heard, and panicked, flailing wildly. He caught someone a blow with his elbow. “No, hold his arms!”

 

He was gripped tightly, and pulled in close to solid heat. He yelped as a firm hand pushed down on his chest, another on his head. “Lie back now. Morse, can you understand me? Morse? We might need to take him to a hospital, I don’t know what I can do with him – No, wait, he’s calming.”

 

Morse had become aware of a face next to his, of lips pressing fiercely against his brow. At the moment it didn’t matter so much whom they belonged to, so much as that it felt  _right_. He slumped down, and his eyes fluttered closed without his permission.

 

“No, keep him up. _Dammit, Fred_.”

 

“Alright, I’ve got him now. Morse? _Endeavour_. Come on, love, open your eyes for me?” There was a plea in that voice which Morse found hard to resist, and he reluctantly opened his eyes again.

 

This time he could see without the halo of light that had been floating in front of his eyes before. He made out a dimly lit room with a bed, one which he was on. So was DeBryn, kneeling over him. And – he squinted sideways – Thursday, half lying, half sitting next to him with his arms around Morse.

 

“Hello,” he said uncertainly.

 

“Oh, thank God,” Thursday muttered beside him. DeBryn’s face took on a less pinched expression. “You didn’t half give us a scare, Morse.” Thursday pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and then another. Morse blushed slightly at DeBryn being right there, but the doctor seemed oblivious.

 

“Yes, quite,” DeBryn agreed. “I’m glad you’re back with us, Morse. Could you get his vest up for me?” This last was said to Thursday, and Morse flushed at the realisation he’d already lost his shirt and belt somewhere, his trousers were half off, and he was only partially covered by a sheet.

 

He squirmed and made a noise of protest as Thursday swept his vest up with a broad hand. “It’s alright, lad, just lie still.”

 

DeBryn leaned over him and gently rested his hand on Morse’s abdomen. “You said he was vomiting?” He began to gently palpate Morse’s stomach, and Morse felt a sort of sore sickness under the pressure. He moaned unhappily as DeBryn moved his hand.

 

“Yes, he didn’t stop for ten minutes maybe. Though nothing came up after the first time.”

 

“Can you tell me how this feels, Morse?” the doctor asked, and pressed again.

 

“Hurts,” Morse choked out.

 

“Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” Morse shook his head. “Alright. Let’s have a look at the rest of you then.” Morse submitted gracefully, and Thursday held him the entire time. “Well, your pulse is a bit weak, and your temperature’s up three degrees. How similar is the way you feel now to the way you felt early on in the bond?”

 

Morse tried with difficulty to think back a couple of weeks, of what it had been like when he’d gone too long without touching Thursday. He’d felt tired, and sick, and listless, and he’d had a temperature then. “Not sure,” he said finally. “Hurts a bit worse now.”

 

“Does it? What hurts, Morse?”

 

“I don’t know,” Morse said miserably. Thursday smoothed his hand over Morse’s hair for a minute.

 

“Would you be able to watch him for a couple of minutes?” Thursday asked DeBryn. “I really need to call Win and let her know what’s happened, and I haven’t been able to leave him.”

 

“Yes, of course. If you could grab some biscuits or crackers from the kitchen on your way back, we should really try and get him to eat something.”

 

Thursday carefully unwrapped himself from Morse, leaving Morse cold and shivering.  He carefully drew the covers up over him, and Morse saw that Thursday had taken his shirt off at some point too. Somehow that made him feel better. “I’ll be back in a minute, Morse. You just stay here.”

 

Once he was gone DeBryn moved to perch on the edge of the bed beside Morse. “You don’t do anything the easy way, do you, Morse?”

 

Morse wrinkled his nose in confusion. “What exactly is going on?”

 

“You’ve been very ill, Morse. How much of today do you remember? It’s six o’clock now.” This was eerily reminiscent of another day, not long ago, when DeBryn had found him by the river and brought him home.

 

“Six?” Morse found it unexpectedly hard to think. “I remember this morning, and getting in the car. And then, we were at your office?” DeBryn nodded. “I’m not sure.”

 

DeBrn sighed. “You’ve gone into some sort of shock, Morse. I’m not sure what to do for you, to be honest. If I thought they could actually help you, and you’d end up as anything other than a lab rat, I’d have you admitted to the hospital.”

 

Morse’s eyes went wide at that, and he shook his head. “No, I’m fine,” he said earnestly. Seconds later DeBryn’s clenched fist hit the side of the bed with a muffled thump, and Morse stared in bewilderment as the pathologist breathed hard in and out of his nose for a few seconds, eyes closed.

 

“Please never say those words to me again,” DeBryn eventually said in a very controlled voice. A minute later he sighed, and took off his glassed to clean them with his shirt. “Now, since Detective Thursday is out of the room, suppose you tell me what set this off, hmm?”

 

“Set what off? I don’t understand.” The room spun a little, and Morse swallowed hard against a sudden increase in nausea. “Is the bond breaking?”

 

“Breaking? No! Why – Morse, did he  _hit_ you?”

 

“Hit me? No! No, he wouldn’t! Sorry, I just… sorry.”

 

‘Is that what it feels like?” DeBryn questioned him carefully after a moment. “As though the bond is breaking?”

 

“I don’t know,” replied Morse hoarsely. “But it  _hurts_ , and I don’t know what else…”

 

“Alright, calm now. Listen to me for a moment, as far as I can tell there’s nothing wrong with the bond itself; at least judging from what your inspector is feeling.”

 

“You called him Fred,” Morse said suddenly. “Before. You called him by his first name.”

 

“Yes, well, there are some experiences in one’s life which bring about the necessary level of acquaintance, and believe me when I say that what we just went through with you in the last half an hour counts as one of them.” His voice was wry. “Now, tell me what happened this morning, step by step.”

 

“I – we woke up. We…” he blushed, and decided that the doctor could live without the details. “Then breakfast. Then Bright called.”

 

“Were you there for the call?” DeBryn asked after a moment.

 

Morse shook his head. “I came out at the end of it, and Thursday told me about the man who’d escaped; that he’d go after his children. We had to come back, to help stop him. He said that he’d ring the station back, and that I should pack.” He stopped there, his throat unexpectedly tight, and the doctor watched him keenly. Behind him, Morse saw Thursday come to stand in the doorway, and his throat closed over even further.

 

“No, don’t look at him; focus on me, Morse. Look at me.” Morse’s eyes swung back to DeBryn. “He told you to go and pack?”  
  
“Yes,” Morse said with some difficulty. “To pack, so that we could leave.”

 

“Alright. What happened next, Morse? What happened after that?”

 

“I… I’m not… I was in the sitting room. I was supposed to be packing.” He looked quickly at DeBryn, who nodded his understanding of this somehow important point. “But I couldn’t move. I-“ His voice sunk very low, “I kept thinking of all the things we’d never get a chance to do, now.”

 

“What things, Morse?” Morse brought a hand up to rub across his face, leaving it covering his eyes. “No, this is important, what won’t you be able to do now?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t… Everything will go back to the way it was before, now.”

 

There was a sharp inhale from over by the door, and DeBryn sighed. “I see.” He reached out and patted Morse’s other hand where it lay curled into his side.  Then he looked over at Thursday, who came forward into the room.

 

“Win said you were very upset when you spoke to her this morning, Morse. She said you told her that you felt sick, that you were unwell, and she asked to talk to me, so that she could tell me. She says,” and here his voice grew dark, “that you hung up on her – that she tried again and you hung up again. Why did you do that, Morse? Why couldn’t you tell me something was wrong?”

 

Thursday had reached the bed, and DeBryn got up to let him take his place. “Easy now,” the doctor murmured as they switched positions.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Endeavour?”

 

Morse stared up at him, feeling conflicted and diorientated. “You wanted to come back; it’s important to you,” he said eventually. “And I knew you must be missing your family. I didn’t want to hold you back.”

 

Thursday swore. “Hold me  _back_!” He bit back whatever he was about to say, and blew out a long breath. “We’re equal partners in this, Morse, but I’m not psychic. I don’t know what you’re feeling.”

 

“There is perhaps a natural inequality in the relationship,” DeBryn said delicately, and Thursday turned to glare at him. He shrugged. “Therefore he might not always feel able to tell you if something is troubling him. Of course, I suspect a good deal of that is just his general personality,” and here he gave Morse a slightly severe look.

 

Morse however, had seen what was in Thursday’s hands, and was distracted from his previous line of thought. “Biscuits?” he said hopefully.

 

Thursday huffed, but a wry smile crept onto his face. “Here you are then; nice to know what your priorities are!” He opened the packet and passed them to Morse. Then he went to stand next to DeBryn at the door. “Will he be alright, now?” Morse heard him ask quietly.

 

“I can only repeat my earlier advice. I’ll go and heat some food – I’m afraid I’ve nothing more exciting to treat you with than tomato soup.”

 

Morse had ravenously gone through the first two biscuits in the pack but now stopped, suddenly feeling unpleasantly full. “Enough, lad?” Thursday asked as he came back over. “Here, there’s still some water in the glass that you didn’t manage to spill earlier.”

 

\-----------

 

Though Morse managed to stay up long enough to have some soup, he fell asleep soon after. Every time he woke after that he had to struggle through the same confusion, haziness and sickness before coherency returned.

 

Thursday stayed with him constantly, holding him, reading to him, and DeBryn came and went irregularly. Morse got used to a thermometer being thrust under his tongue, to swallowing unpleasant-tasting medicine when DeBryn commented that his temperature was still too high. If Thursday did have to step out for a minute, DeBryn stayed with him and reassured him that Thursday would be back soon. After the first time Morse woke to find himself alone and then didn’t stop shaking for an hour, they carefully overlapped even when he was asleep as well. ‘Just as well it’s a weekend,” DeBryn had said at some point, and Morse was vaguely confused because wasn’t it _Friday_?

 

He awoke with a clear head for the first time in a long while to a large, warm hand rubbing gentle circles on his bare stomach, and he hummed his appreciation. The motion stopped. “Endeavour?”

 

Morse tipped his head back to find Thursday spooning behind him. “Morning,” he said rustily, and cleared his throat.

 

Thursday’s laugh was a little wild. “It’s not morning, lad. Saturday afternoon.”

 

“Saturday?” Morse tried to process that. Everything since Friday morning was fragmented and distressing, and he couldn’t make much sense of the memories. “I was sick?”

 

Thursday pressed close behind him for a moment, and his hand resumed its wandering path over Morse’s belly. “Yes, you were sick, Morse,” he said with a sigh.

 

“I’m sorry,” Morse said unthinkingly, and then bits and pieces of Friday became clearer. “The case!” He tried to sit upright, but Thursday tightened an arm around his waist to keep him down.

 

“Take it easy,” he rumbled. “You aren’t going anywhere for a bit. I’ll get Max to have a look at you, and then we’ll see if you can keep something down.”

 

Thursday wouldn’t answer any more of his questions, just gently stroking and touching him until ‘Max’ knocked half an hour later. Morse would have been annoyed at being put off, but every time Thursday touched him he felt the most wonderful lassitude slip over him. It made it hard to stay irritated.

 

“Come in,” Thursday raised his voice, and a moment later DeBryn appeared around the door.

 

“Oh, he’s awake again, is he? Hello, Morse.”

 

“Not just awake,” said Thursday, pleased. “Better, I think. Much grouchier, at least.” Morse hmphed, and opened his mouth to complain; Thursday brushed a hand over his cheek and he shut it again with a grumble, but a pleased one.

 

“Morse?” Debryn asked, and it took Morse a moment to realise the doctor was addressing him directly this time.

 

He cautiously levered himself upright, and this time Thursday didn’t pull him back down. “Doctor. It’s Saturday?”

 

“That it is. You _do_ look better. Let me take your temperature.” Morse wordlessly objected to the thermometer, to DeBryn seeing him with no shirt, to being ordered about, and saw smiles grow on the other men’s faces the more contrary and stubborn he was. “Definitely improved. And his temperature’s down too,” DeBryn said as he retrieved the thermometer. “You might try him downstairs. I’ll go and make some tea.”

 

Morse felt shakier than he expected when he got to his feet, but felt obligated to show he was fine under Thursday’s watchful eyes. He went to the bathroom, shutting the door in Thursday’s uncertain face, and sat down abruptly on the lid of the toilet, taking very careful breaths. After a minute he pulled himself upright again, did his business and threw a handful of cold water in his face.

 

He could practically _feel_ Thursday hovering outside the door, so didn’t linger. True enough, Thursday was watching the door like a hawk; the relief on his face when Morse opened it and walked out was humbling.

 

“Downstairs?” Morse asked, and Thursday quirked an eyebrow.

 

“You might want some trousers first,” he said with a smile, and Morse went beet red. He headed back for the bedroom. “Not that we haven’t seen all there is to see,” Thursday added slyly as he followed Morse in, and Morse threw a pillow at him.

 

DeBryn brought him toast and ginger tea on the sofa, and Thursday held him close and tenderly carded his fingers through Morse’s hair as he ate. Morse went slowly, even though he was hungry; he was assuming from what the other two had said that he’d had an upset stomach. He could remember the pain of it, almost, but as though it were on the other side of a pane of glass.

 

Finished, he put the plate aside, and held the mug cupped between his hands. “I know you must have told me before, but what happened?” He wanted to ask if it had been a stomach bug, but that would have been disingenuous; he remembered enough to know DeBryn had said it was something to do with the bond.

 

“It was coming back,” Thursday said after clearing his throat. His hand dropped to rest around Morse’s shoulders. “Coming back here. I made you worry that things wouldn’t be alright between us, and your fear destabilised the chemicals in… some kind of cortex?” They both looked at DeBryn, who nodded. “In your brain; the bit that deals with the bond. That’s what the doctor here thinks, anyway.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with the bond between you two,” DeBryn added immediately. “It isn’t breaking, it’s not weak or unhealthy. But, due to an unfortunate pre-existing condition,” and here Morse heard all of the words he didn’t say, “your own brain chemistry is now pre-disposed to react… out of proportion, shall we say, to any strain on the bond.”

 

“I… made myself sick,” Morse said slowly.

 

“In a way, but not on purpose. There was nothing you could have done to stop it, Morse. The part of the brain that is associated with bonding is so little understood, as well as the way it interacts with human physiology. Now that we know the problem exists, we can take precautionary measures to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

 

Morse hesitated, but then pushed on. “What about the case?” he asked Thursday. “You haven’t been able to do anything, have you? Because of me?”

 

“Oh, none of that, lad,” Thursday mumbled into his hair.

 

“I wouldn’t have cleared the two of you for work, anyway, Morse, which Thursday would have known if he’d bothered to consult me first before driving all the way back here.” The words were barbed, and Morse looked between DeBryn and Thursday in confusion. “Sorry, Morse. Ignore me, I’m tired.”

 

“Sorry,” Morse apologised, unsettled. “I must have been a lot of trouble.”

 

DeBryn smiled at that, leaning forward in his chair to look at Morse over the top of his glasses. “Indeed you were, but if you promise to try and avoid repeating the issue, I am happy to call it even,” he said kindly.

 

Morse summoned a worried smile in return. “Thank you,” he said, feeling ill at ease at the idea of the doctor having to look after him. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Both of you.” He turned to Thursday, who kissed him lightly on the lips in response. Morse flinched back instinctively and shot a shocked glance at DeBryn.

 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the pathologist said, sounding vastly amused. Then more seriously, “How are you feeling after the toast, Morse?”

 

“Fine,” Morse was surprised to realise it was true. “Not sick at all.”

 

“Good. You should probably rest for a bit more. No, doctor’s orders!” he said when Morse started to argue. “Though you can stay down here. I should really go and see my mother; I’d usually have gone this morning.”

 

“Alright,” said Thursday. “Can you leave me a number, just in case?”

 

DeBryn left them with a couple of glasses of water and another piece of toast. Thursday arranged them so that they were mostly horizontal; him lying on his back propped up against the cushions with Morse resting on top of him; head on Thursday’s chest. They lay quietly for a bit, Morse running his fingers up and down Thursday’s strong forearms where they crossed over Morse’s stomach.

 

“I owe you an apology,” Thursday said finally. “This was my fault.”

 

“It sounds like it was mine,” Morse contradicted him ruefully. “My stupid brain.”

 

“No, I – Max tore me a new one, Morse, for what I did. I didn’t understand what you needed, at all. And I was being completely irrational about work – convinced that anything I could do to help would be worth it without thinking about what I _could_ actually do, in terms of the bond.”

 

“I don’t think you said anything that didn’t make sense, when we talked about it,” Morse said guardedly. “You said that the man would come after his children, that they said you had the best chance of catching him, and that you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if something happened and you hadn’t tried. That all still makes sense,” he repeated, not sure whom he was trying to convince. “Have they caught him yet?”

 

Thursday sighed. “I don’t know Morse. I haven’t talked to anyone from the station. Only person I’ve called is Win, and she doesn’t exactly have inside information.”

 

“Then tomorrow-“

 

“Speaking of which,” Thursday said firmly over the top of him, “I promised I’d call as soon as you took a turn for the better. She’s been dreadfully worried about you. She’d have come round in a heartbeat, but I told her not to for the moment.”

 

“How is she?” Morse asked after a moment.

 

“Win? She’s fine. She’s mad at you for not taking care of yourself though. Do you feel up to talking to her?”

 

Morse nodded, ambivalent but feeling unable to say no. Usefully, DeBryn had a phone on the side table right next to the sofa, so they sat up and shuffled up to the other end to reach it.

 

“Win, love. Yes, I’m alright. Yes, he is. Yes, much better. Really. He’s up and about – we’ve got him downstairs and trying toast.” Thursday rolled his eyes at Morse, who was sitting beside him. “Would you like to talk to him?” Evidently the answer was positive, because his eyes crinkled in a smile and he handed the receiver to Morse.

 

“Hello?” Morse said, feeling a little shy.

 

“Endeavour, love! It’s so good to hear your voice; Fred told me you’ve been terribly sick!”

 

“I, ah, I don’t actually remember most of it. But I feel much better now.”

 

“That’s good, love. I’d have had you back here, so I could look after you properly, but we haven’t finished getting the room ready for you yet.” Morse hadn’t even known she’d been getting a room ready for him – he’d assumed when they talked before that such a thing was months away.

 

“Oh,” he said faintly. “That’s nice.”

 

“Alright, Morse?” Thursday asked quietly from beside him.

 

“And I know you’re still not well, so I shouldn’t scold you too much, but I’ll not have you do that again, young man! Don’t ever try to hide it when you’re ill; not from me and certainly not from Fred!”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said awkwardly.

 

She laughed kindly. “Go on and put my husband back on then, so I can scold him instead.”

 

“Goodbye, Mrs Thursday.”

 

Thursday took the phone from him, and had a minute’s conversation about the children before saying his goodbyes too.

 

“That’s something else we need to talk about,” he said, tucking Morse into his side, and Morse let out a disapproving grumble. “Or you can go to sleep, if you feel like you need rest,” Thursday offered solicitously. Morse grumbled again. “That’s what I thought.”

 

“Morse,” he said after a long pause. “Why did you think that coming back here would mean that - actually, I’m not even sure what you thought. But clearly that I wouldn’t…” he stumbled over his words. “Want to be with you anymore. Or wouldn’t be able to. Why would you think that, lad? I hope I’ve not given you reason to doubt me?”

 

It was a difficult question to answer. Beyond their small disagreements, Thursday had always been there for Morse. He’d been more accepting of the bond than Morse, and over the days in Cornwall had shown him nothing but affection and…

 

“I don’t know how much of it is from you,” Morse said, thinking it out as he went. “Some of it might be – worry, that things will go wrong again. But things were – “ Morse felt as though a constrictor had wound around his chest and was squeezing. “Were good there. In Cornwall, I mean. How we were. And I knew it wouldn’t be like that back here.”

 

“No, probably not, Morse,” Thursday said slowly. “But there’s a huge leap between ‘different’ and ‘not at all.’”

 

“I just – you were touching me all the time.” Once he started, it was like a dam burst, and everything came pouring out. “You won’t be able to do that in front of your family. Or at work. So you won’t do it. And we won’t be able to – to make love at your house, because it’s _your house_. So we won’t do that either. You won’t be able to sleep with me, but that will mean that we _don’t sleep_. And you won’t talk to me the same way anymore, because we’ll be back at work and you’ll feel like you can’t share things. You’ll realise it’s just easier not to do anything. Not to be with me at all.” Morse stopped, swallowed, tried to clear his mind. “I know it won’t work like that – the bond wouldn’t let you. But I wasn’t thinking clearly, somehow.”

 

“And you’re still thinking it, from the sound of it. It’s not something I have an easy answer for Morse, but I’ll not abandon you; not for anything. I need you too, remember that. I want you too. As for the rest of it,” he sighed. “I need to have another talk with Win. When we first discussed it, I only had the roughest idea of how things might be between us.”

 

“It doesn’t… I don’t… I know that you said things haven’t been like that for a long time, between you two,” Morse managed finally. “But it still hurts to be replaced.”

 

“I know, Endeavour. And I don’t want to hurt her. But certain things just _are_ now, there’s no getting around them. Let me talk to her. Don’t worry about it until then.”

 

“Hmm,” Morse said noncommittally.

 

Thursday sighed, and kissed the top of Morse’s head where it lay on his shoulder. “Want me to read to you?” After a moment he added self-consciously, “You seemed to like that, when you were ill.”

 

Morse, who had been surprised by the offer, remembered snapshots now of Thursday’s deep voice rumbling through a haze of confusion. “Yes,” he said simply. “That sounds perfect.”

 

“Alright.” Thursday stirred, and levered himself up off the couch. He hesitated before moving away. “Will you be alright while I fetch the one we were reading?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Morse said, bemused.

 

Thursday didn’t move. “By yourself?”

 

“Yes?” Morse leant back against the couch cushions, and raised an eyebrow at Thursday.

 

“Right. Right. Well – you just call me, if you need me. I’ll only be a minute.” He seemed to be talking himself into leaving, and was back less than a minute later – Morse thought he’d hurried slightly more than he’d probably needed to – with a thick paperback.

 

Morse eyed the book with interest.  “What is it?”

 

“Well, it’s… I’m not sure you’ll like it. It’s about the war. My Sam’s reading it at the moment.” He showed Morse the front cover – Catch 22. “Heard of it?” Morse shook his head, but then he always tended to be buried in the past when it came to literature.

 

They settled back on the sofa together, Thursday propping the book up on Morse’s shoulder to read. He started somewhere in the middle, without seeming to care that Morse didn’t remember what had gone before, and Morse spent most of the first few minutes just enjoying the sound of Thursday’s voice rather than paying attention to the words.

 

It was a sort of dry satire on the insanity of war, Morse decided after a while, and he wondered if this copy of the book belonged to Thursday or was DeBryn’s. It would fit the doctor’s sense of humour, but then Thursday had said Sam was reading it.

 

He hummed or snorted, occasionally, in response to something that Thursday had read, and Morse could hear the smile in Thursday’s voice afterwards. In between turning pages, Thursday’s hand would touch his hair, his shoulder, the side of his neck. It was incredibly soothing, lying close to Thursday, breath stirring his hair. Thursday’s voice rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence, and Morse was eventually lulled into a light doze.

 

A loud noise startled him sometime later, and he lifted his head muzzily. “It’s just the doctor home, Endeavour,” Thursday said quietly.

 

“Sorry, did I fall asleep?” Morse asked, stretching his back a little. He turned in towards Thursday and slid his arm around him. “I didn’t mean to; I liked your reading.”

 

Thursday hummed. “It’s strange – I haven’t read to anyone in years; not since the kids were young.”

 

After hesitating for a moment, Morse asked, “Why did you start reading to me?”

 

“It seemed to settle you.” Thursday ran his hand up and down Morse’s upper arm. “You were… Lad, there were times in the night…”

 

“I’m sorry,” Morse offered quietly.

 

Thursday let out a frustrated huff. “Sorry for – never mind, don’t answer that. Anyway, you seemed to like the sound of my voice, and I thought – well, when I asked DeBryn he brought up some books, and I recognised this one.”

 

“It was a good thought,” said Morse softly. “Thank you.”

 

“I was happy to.” Thursday paused for a moment. “It was nice just now, too, when you were actually listening.” Morse buried his smile in Thursday’s chest.

 

“Maybe we could do it again, sometime?” he asked tentatively, and Thursday pulled him up to kiss him tenderly.

 

DeBryn came in to the room a few minutes later, and said that his mother had made a shepherd’s pie for him to bring home; he was about to put it in the oven. Morse sat up and pulled away from Thursday, embarrassed, though DeBryn seemed to take no note of their close position. He was clearly pleased to see Morse still improved, and they had a few minutes conversation about the book Thursday had been reading.

 

Once he’d left them Morse shifted closer to Thursday again, who obligingly lifted his arm to place it around him.

 

“Will we go into the station in the morning then?” asked Morse.

 

“No, Morse, we’ll not be helping on this one,” Thursday said in a resigned tone.

 

“What? But now that I’m fine - I mean, even if I can’t go in, you could!”

 

“Morse. They’ll manage just fine without me.”

 

“But what about-“

 

‘The first thing they’ll have done is posted someone on the children, or moved them if they were in danger,” Thursday said firmly. “They’ll have a city-wide manhunt for this bloke – maybe they’ve already picked him up already. Whatever I could have done, Morse, it’s being done already – maybe it’ll take a bit longer, but it’ll get done.”

 

“What about CS Bright?”

 

Thursday sighed. “Well, he wasn’t happy when I spoke to him, but the blame’s on him for trying to get us back in the first place; he can hardly complain that we weren’t fit when that was the whole reason we were off. Max had a word with him, this morning; updated him on our condition and told him that we wouldn’t be coming back this week.”

 

 _Our condition_. “What – what are we going to do? We can’t stay here.” Morse gestured at the room.   

 

“Mmm. The doctor’s been a godsend, but I’d not impose on him any longer. Well, we could always go back to Cornwall; bit of a long drive, but doable.”

 

Morse thought this over quietly for a minute. “Do you want to?” he asked finally.

 

“It’d be nice, certainly. I was enjoying our time out there. We’ve maybe been doing a bit too much of what I want to do, Endeavour, what do  _you_ want to do?”

 

“I’m not sure.” For all of the joy he’d found in their time in Cornwall, it seemed somehow tainted now by that last morning. “I’m not sure if I want to go back.”

 

“Alright,” said Thursday agreeably, and slipped his hand just under Morse’s untucked shirt to rest against his side.

 

“It’s just, now that we’re back…” Thursday waited patiently while Morse thought it through. “It felt like that was a bit too much of a bubble, like it was completely disconnected from reality. I couldn’t make it fit with anything that would come after.”

 

Thursday rested the side of his head on top of Morse’s. “And now?”

 

“Now it’s… it feels more real, I suppose. We’re back in Oxford, but you’re still touching me, still with me. Even –“ Morse cut himself off abruptly, ashamed of what he’d been about to say.

 

“Even what?” Thursday rubbed his cheek back and forth against Morse’s hair.

 

“Nothing, sorry.”

 

“Even what, Morse?” Thursday pressed, trying to turn Morse to look at him.

 

“It doesn’t matter!” Morse said sharply, launching himself to his feet. He took two irritated steps forward, and then guilt kicked in. “Sorry,” he mumbled, keeping his back to Thursday. “It was stupid, what I was going to say.”

 

“Why don’t you let me decide that,” Thursday murmured.

 

Morse drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out again in a sigh. The clock on the opposite wall ticked one minute; two. He thought about different ways to try and explain what he’d been going to say, to excuse it, to apologise for it.

 

“Even though you… Even…. Even though… I-“ He stopped again in frustration, and crossed his arms protectively over his chest. Thursday said nothing, but Morse could feel his presence behind him.

 

“You still stayed with me. Even though you could have gone back to be with them,” Morse finally got out, not allowing himself to think about the words as he said them. Then a tidal wave of red rushed over his face, and he was glad Thursday couldn’t see him. “I know I was sick. And I don’t mean that I’d ever not want you to go to them; it was a ridiculous thought. I’m sorry, I-“

 

“ _Endeavour_ ,” Thursday shushed him. Morse took a quick gulp of air.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered again.

 

“Alright, calm down.” Morse heard the rustle as Thursday stood, felt warmth behind him as he came to stand close. “You’ve not said anything bad, love,” he said quietly.

 

Morse stayed facing away, unable to look at Thursday, and shook his head slightly. After a moment Thursday’s hands came to rest on Morse’s shoulders. Morse didn’t relax, but he didn’t shrug them off either.

 

“It seems,” Thursday said after a moment, “that all through this you’ve been assuming I’ll put the rest of my family first.” Morse nodded; it was an obvious truth. “And, at least to start with I suppose you’d have been right; when I didn’t know about the bond – and then when I didn’t understand what it was. But Morse,  _you’re part of my family now_.”

 

Morse hmmed a doubtful agreement, and hunched his shoulders forward. “You know what they say about not being able to choose your family,” he said wryly.

 

“That isn’t what – hang on, come here.” The hands on his shoulders tugged gently, and when Morse showed resistance Thursday walked around him instead. “Look at me.  _Look_ at me. If you need to know that I’ll put you first sometimes, Endeavour, then yes, I will. _You are no less important to me_. If you and I need time together, then I will put that above other concerns.”

 

A warm flush spread out from Morse’s chest, and his breath hitched. Hitched again.

 

“Should have said that to you before, shouldn’t I?” Thursday said a little ruefully.

 

“I didn’t – I….” Morse hesitated. “You’re… to me too.” He ended up mumbling the words, and hoped they’d been understood.

 

Thursday cupped a hand around the back of Morse’s neck, and brought him in for an achingly tender brush of mouths. Morse slipped his arms around Thursday’s waist, and leaned up into the kiss.

 

“Maybe Cornwall would be nice after all,” Morse murmured into Thursday’s mouth. “Or…” He pulled back slightly. “I’ve got a friend with a cabin by a lake, nearby. Tony,” Morse said slowly. “I rang him a week ago, when I thought I might need… somewhere to stay. It’s likely pretty basic, but we could stay there.”

 

“Which would you prefer?” Thursday asked, and gently brushed unruly hair back from Morse’s forehead. “For that matter, if there’s somewhere else you’d like to go, I’ve got a bit saved up…” Morse shook his head.

 

“I don’t really mind. Can I think about it?”

 

“Course you can. I’ll ask Max if we can stay until the morning – I think he was planning on us staying the night anyway.” After a moment, “Would you mind if we dropped in to see Win and the kids in the morning? I’d like to say hello.”

 

“No, I’d like to see them too,” Morse said shyly. Even when his feelings had been at their most tangled, he never forgot that he _liked_ Thursday’s family.

 

“Alright then, we can sort the rest in the morning. Morse? It’ll be alright. I promise.”

 

And for all that Morse wasn’t sure it was a promise Thursday could keep, it was a nice one to have.

 

The (Other) End


End file.
